GIFT   OF 

THOMAS    RUTHERFORD  BACON 
MEMORIAL   LIBRARY 


/J  &<*. 


f 


/J  // 


4* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bobsonofbattleOOollirich 


Bob,  Son  of  Battle 


BOB 

SON  OF  BATTLE 

BY  ALFRED  OLLIVANT 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE 

COMPANY 

1899 


°\u\ 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
DOUBLEDAY   &   McCLURE   CO. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York. 


CONTENTS 


PART   I 

The  Coming  of  the  Tailless  Tyke 

chapter  page 

I.  The  Gray  Dog 3 

II.  A  Son  of  Hagar, 12 

III.  Red  Willi, 25 

IV.  First  Blood, 35 

PART  II 

The  Little  Man 

V.  A  Man's  Son,  * 49 

VI.  A  Licking  or  a  Lie,         ....     60 

VII.  The  White  Winter,  .        .         .        .71 

VIII.  M'Adam  and  his  Coat,    .  .84 

PART   III 

The  Shepherds'  Trophy 

IX.  Rivals, 99 

X.  Red  Willi  Wins 11 1 

XI.  Oor  Bob, 123 

XII.  How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge,    .        .130 
XIII.  The  Face  in  the  Frame,  .        .        .144 


VI 


Contents 

PART   IV 
The  Black  Killer 


XIV. 

A  Mad  Man,     .        .        . 

.  155 

XV. 

Death  on  the  Marches,    . 

.   164 

XVI. 

The  Black  Killer 

•   175 

XVII. 

A  Mad  Dog,     .... 

.   186 

XVIII. 

How  the  Killer  was  Singed,  . 

.  194 

XIX. 

Lad  and  Lass,          . 

.  207 

XX. 

The  Snapping  of  the  String,  . 

.  217 

XXI. 

Horror  of  Darkness, 

.  231 

PART   V 
Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir 

XXII.  A  Man  and  a  Maid, 

XXIII.  Th'  Owd  Un 

XXIV.  A  Shot  in  the  Night, 
XXV.  The  Shepherds'  Trophy, 


243 
259 
268 
279 


PART  VI 

The  Black  Killer 

XXVI.  Red-handed 299 

XXVII.  For  the  Defence, 310 

XXVIII.  The  Devil's  Bowl 321 

XXIX.  The  Devil's  Bowl, 331 

XXX.  The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay,      .        .        .339 

Postscript 354 


PART  I 


THE  COMING  OF   THE  TAILLESS 
TYKE 


CHAPTER   I 

THE   GRAY   DOG 

The  sun  stared  brazenly  down  on  a  gray 
farmhouse,  lying  long  and  low  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Muir  Pike ;  on  the  ruins  of  peel-tower 
and  barmkyn,  relics  of  the  time  of  raids,  it 
looked;  on  ranges  of  whitewashed  outbuild- 
ings; on  a  goodly  array  of  dark-thatched 
ricks. 

In  the  stack-yard,  behind  the  lengthy  range 
of  stables,  two  men  were  thatching.  One  lay 
sprawling  on  the  crest  of  the  rick,  the  other 
stood  perched  on  a  ladder  at  a  lower  level. 

The  latter,  small,  old,  with  shrewd  nut- 
brown  countenance,  was  Tammas  Thornton, 
who  had  served  the  Moores  of  Kenmuir  for 
more  than  half  a  century.  The  other,  on  top 
of  the  stack,  wrapped  apparently  in  gloomy 
meditation,  was  Sam'l  Todd.  A  solid  Dales- 
man, he,  with  huge  hands  and  hairy  arms; 
about  his  face  an  uncomely  aureole  of  stiff,  red 
hair;  and  on  his  features,  deep-seated,  an  ex- 
pression of  resolute  melancholy. 

"Ay,  the  Gray  Dogs,  bless  'em!"  the  old 
man  was  saying.  "Yo'  canna  beat  'em  not 
nohow.  Known  'em  ony  time  this  sixty  year, 
I  have,  and  niver  knew  a  bad  un  yet.     Not  as 


4  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

I  say,  mind  ye,  as  any  on  'em  cooms  up  to  Rex 
son  o*  Rally.  Ah,  he  was  a  one,  was  Rex! 
We's  never  won  Cup  since  his  day." 

"Nor  niver  shall  agin,  yo'  may  depend," 
said  the  other  gloomily. 

Tammas  clucked  irritably. 

"G'long,  Sam'l  Todd!"  he  cried.  "Yo' 
niver  happy  onless  yo'  makin'  yo'self  miser- 
'ble.  I  niver  see  sich  a  chap.  Niver  win 
agin?  Why,  oor  young  Bob  he'll  mak'  a 
right  un,  I  tell  yo',  and  I  should  know.  Not 
as  what  he'll  touch  Rex  son  o'  Rally,  mark  ye! 
I'm  niver  sayin'  so,  Sam'l  Todd.  Ah,  he  was 
a  one,  was  Rex !  I  could  tell  yo'  a  tale  or  two 
o'  Rex.     I  mind  me  hoo " 

The  big  man  interposed  hurriedly. 

"I've  heard  it  afore,  Tammas,  I  welly  'ave," 
he  said. 

Tammas  paused  and  looked  angrily  up. 

"Yo've  heard  it  afore,  have  yo',  Sam'l 
Todd?"  he  asked  sharply.  "And  what  have 
yo'  heard  afore?" 

"Yo'  stories,  owd  lad — yo'  stories  o'  Rex 
son  o'  Rally." 

"Which  on  'em?" 

"  All  on  'em,  Tammas,  all  on  'em — mony  a 
time.  I'm  fair  sick  on  'em,  Tammas,  I  welly 
am,"  he  pleaded. 

The  old  man  gasped.  He  brought  down  his 
mallet  with  a  vicious  smack. 

"  I'll  niver  tell  yo*  a  tale  agin,  Sam'l  Todd, 
not  if  yo'  was  to  go  on  yo'  bended  knees  for't. 


The  Gray  Dog  5 

Nay;  it  bain't  no  manner  o'  use  talkin'. 
Niver  agin,  says  I." 

"I  niver  askt  yo',"  declared  honest  Sam'l. 

"  Nor  it  wouldna  ha'  bin  no  manner  o'  use  if 
yo*  had,"  said  the  other  viciously.  "  I'll  niver 
tell  yo'  a  tale  agin  if  I  was  to  live  to  be  a  hun- 
derd." 

"Yo'll  not  live  to  be  a  hunderd,  Tammas 
Thornton,  nor  near  it,"  said  Sam'l  brutally. 

"I'll  live  as  long  as  some,  I  warrant,"  the 
old  man  replied  with  spirit.  "  I'll  live  to  see 
"Cup  back  i'  Kenmuir,  as  I  said  afore." 

"If  yo'  do,"  the  other  declared  with  empha- 
sis, "Sam'l  Todd  niver  spake  a  true  word. 
Nay,  nay,  lad ;  yo're  owd,  yo're  wambly,  your 
time's  near  run  or  I'm  the  more  mistook." 

"For  mussy's  sake  hold  yo'  tongue,  Sam'l 

Todd !     It's  clack-clack  all  day "     The  old 

man  broke  off  suddenly,  and  buckled  to  his 
work  with  suspicious  vigor.  "Mak'  a  show 
yo'  bin  workin',  lad,"  he  whispered.  "  Here's 
Master  and  oor  Bob." 

As  he  spoke,  a  tall  gaitered  man  with 
weatherbeaten  face,  strong,  lean,  austere,  and 
the  blue-gray  eyes  of  the  hill-country,  came 
striding  into  the  yard.  And  trotting  soberly 
at  his  heels,  with  the  gravest,  saddest  eyes 
ever  you  saw,  a  sheep-dog  puppy. 

A  rare  dark  gray  he  was,  his  long  coat, 
dashed  here  and  there  with  lighter  touches, 
like  a  stormy  sea  moonlit.  Upon  his  chest 
an  escutcheon  of  purest  white,  and  the  dome 


6  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

of  his  head  showered,  as  it  were,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  snow.  Perfectly  compact,  ut- 
terly lithe,  inimitably  graceful  with  his  airy- 
fairy  action;  a  gentleman  every  inch,  you 
could  not  help  but  stare  at  him — Owd  Bob  o' 
Kenmuir. 

At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  the  two  stopped. 
And  the  young  dog,  placing  his  forepaws  on  a 
lower  rung,  looked  up,  slowly  waving  his 
silvery  brush. 

"A  proper  Gray  Dog!"  mused  Tammas, 
gazing  down  into  the  dark  face  beneath  him. 
"  Small,  yet  big ;  light  to  get  about  on  backs  o' 
his  sheep,  yet  not  too  light.  Wi'  a  coat  hard 
a-top  to  keep  oot  Daleland  weather,  soft  as 
sealskin  beneath.  And  wi'  them  sorrerful 
eyes  on  him  as  niver  goes  but  wi*  a  good  un. 
Amaist  he  minds  me  o'  Rex  son  o'  Rally." 

"  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !"  groaned  Sam'l.  But 
the  old  man  heard  him  not. 

"Did  'Enry  Fare  wether  tell  yo'  hoo  he 
acted  this  mornin',  Master?"  he  inquired,  ad- 
dressing the  man  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 

"Nay,"  said  the  other,  his  stern  eyes  lignt- 
ing. 

"Why,  'twas  this  way,  it  seems,"  Tammas 
continued.  "Young  bull  gets  'isself  loose 
somegate  and  marches  oot  into  yard,  o'er- 
turns  milkpail,  and  prods  owd  pigs  i'  ribs. 
And  as  he  stands  lookin'  about  un,  thinkin' 
what  he  shall  be  up  to  next,  oor  Bob  sees  un. 
'An'  what  yo'  doin'  here,  Mr.  Bull?'  he  seems 


The  Gray  Dog  7 

to  say,  cockin'  his  ears  and  trottin'  up  gay- 
like. Wi'  that  bull  bloats  fit  to  bust  'isself, 
lashes  wi  's  tail,  waggles  his  head,  and  gets 
agate  o'  chargin'  'im.  But  Bob  leaps  oot  o' 
way,  quick  as  lightnin'  yet  cool  as  butter,  and 
when  he's  done  his  foolin'  drives  un  back 
agin." 

"Who  seed  all  this?"  interposed  Sam'l, 
sceptically. 

"  'Enry  Farewether  from  the  loft.  So  there, 
Fat'ead!"  Tammas  replied,  and  continued  his 
tale.  "So  they  goes  on:  bull  chargin'  and 
Bob  drivin'  un  back  and  back,  hoppin'  in  and 
oot  agin,  quiet  as  a  cowcumber,  yet  deter- 
mined. At  last  Mr.  Bull  sees  it's  no  manner  o' 
use  that  gate,  so  he  turns,  rares  up,  and  tries 
to  jump  wall.  Nary  a  bit.  Young  dog  jumps 
in  on  un  and  nips  him  by  tail.  Wi'  that,  bull 
tumbles  down  in  a  hurry,  turns  wi'  a  kind  o' 
groan,  and  marches  back  into  stall,  Bob  after 
un.  And  then,  dang  me !" — the  old  man  beat 
the  ladder  as  he  loosed  off  this  last  titbit, — "  if 
he  doesna  sit  'isself  i'  door  like  a  sentry nel  till 
'Enry  Farewether  coom  up.  Hoo's  that  for  a 
tyke  not  yet  a  year?" 

Even  Sam'l  Todd  was  moved  by  the  tale. 

"Well  done,  oor  Bob!",  he  cried. 

"Good,  lad!"  said  the  Master,  laying  a  hand 
on  the  dark  head  at  his  knee. 

"Yo'  may  well  say  that,"  cried  Tammas  in 
a  kind  of  ecstasy.  "  A  proper  Gray  Dog,  I  tell 
yo'.     Wi'  the  brains  of  a  man  and  the  way  of 


8  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

a  woman.  Ah,  yo'  canna  beat  'em  nohow,  the 
Gray  Dogs  o'  Kenmuir!" 

The  patter  of  cheery  feet  rang  out  on  the 
plank-bridge  over  the  stream  below  them. 
Tammas  glanced  round. 

"Here's  David,"  he  said.  "Late  this 
mornin'  he  be." 

A  fair-haired  boy  came  spurring  up  the 
slope,  his  face  all  aglow  with  the  speed  of  his 
running.  Straightway  the  young  dog  dashed 
off  to  meet  him  with  a  fiery  speed  his  sober 
gait  belied.  The  two  raced  back  together  into 
the  yard. 

"Poor  lad!"  said  Sam'l  gloomily,  regarding 
the  newcomer. 

"Poor  heart!"  muttered  Tammas.  While 
the  Master's  face  softened  visibly.  Yet  there 
looked  little  to  pity  in  this  jolly,  rollicking  lad 
with  the  tousle  of  light  hair  and  fresh,  rosy 
countenance. 

"G'mornin',  Mister  Moore!  Morn'n,  Tam- 
mas !  Morn'n,  Sam'l !"  he  panted  as  he  passed ; 
and  ran  on  through  the  hay-carpeted  yard,  round 
the  corner  of  the  stable,  and  into  the  house. 

In  the  kitchen,  a  long  room  with  red-tiled 
floor  and  latticed  windows,  a  woman,  white- 
aproned  and  frail-faced,  was  bustling  about 
her  morning  business.  To  her  skirts  clung  a 
sturdy,  bare-legged  boy;  while  at  the  oak 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  a  girl  with 
brown  eyes  and  straggling  hair  was  seated  be- 
Jfore  a  basin  of  bread  and  mill?. 


The  Gray  Dog  9 

"So  yo've  coom  at  last,  David!"  the  woman 
cried,  as  the  boy  entered;  and,  bending, 
greeted  him  with  a  tender,  motherly  saluta- 
tion, which  he  returned  as  affectionately.  "  I 
welly  thowt  yo'd  forgot  us  this  mornin'.  Noo 
sit  yo'  doon  beside  oor  Maggie."  And  soon 
he,  too,  was  engaged  in  a  task  twin  to  the  girl's. 

The  two  children  munched  away  in  silence, 
the  little  bare-legged  boy  watching  them,  the 
while,  critically.  Irritated  by  this  prolonged 
stare,  David  at  length  turned  on  him. 

"Weel,  little  Andrew,"  he  said,  speaking  in 
that  paternal  fashion  in  which  one  small  boy 
loves  to  address  another.  "Weel,  ma  little 
lad,  yo'm  coomin'  along  gradely."  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair  the  better  to  criticise  his  sub- 
ject. But  Andrew,  like  all  the  Moores,  slow 
of  speech,  preserved  a  stolid  silence,  sucking 
a  chubby  thumb,  and  regarding  his  patron  a 
thought  cynically. 

David  resented  the  expression  on  the  boy's 
countenance,  and  half  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Yo'  put  another  face  on  yo',  Andrew 
Moore,"  he  cried  threateningly,  "or  I'll  put 
it  for  yo'." 

Maggie,  however,  interposed  opportunely. 

"Did  yo'  feyther  beat  yo'  last  night?"  she 
inquired  in  a  low  voice ;  and  there  was  a  shade 
of  anxiety  in  the  soft  brown  eyes. 

"Nay,"  the  boy  answered;  "he  was  a-goin' 
to,  but  he  never  did.  Drunk,"  he  added  in 
explanation. 


io  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"  What  was  he  goin'  to  beat  yo'  for,  David?" 
asked  Mrs.  Moore. 

"  What  for?  Why,  for  the  fun  o't — to  see  me 
squiggle, "  the  boy  replied, and  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Yo'  shouldna  speak  so  o'  your  dad,  David," 
reproved  the  other  as  severely  as  was  in  her 
nature. 

"Dad!  a  fine  dad!  I'd  dad  him  an  I'd  the 
chance, "  the  boy  muttered  beneath  his  breath. 
Then,  to  turn  the  conversation : 

"Us  should  be  startin',  Maggie,"  he  said, 
and  going  to  the  door.  "  Bob !  Owd  Bob,  lad ! 
Ar't  coomin'  along?"  he  called. 

The  gray  dog  came  springing  up  like  an 
antelope,  and  the  three  started  off  for  school 
together. 

Mrs.  Moore  stood  in  the  doorway,  holding 
Andrew  by  the  hand,  and  watched  the  depart- 
ing trio. 

"  'Tis  a  pretty  pair,  Master,  surely,"  she  said 
softly  to  her  husband,  who  came  up  at  the 
moment. 

"  Ay,  he'll  be  a  fine  lad  if  his  feyther'll  let 
him,"  the  tall  man  answered. 

"'Tis  a  shame  Mr.  M'Adam  should  lead 
him  such  a  life,"  the  woman  continued  indig- 
nantly. She  laid  a  hand  on  her  husband's 
arm,  and  looked  up  at  him  coaxingly. 

"Could  yo*  not  say  summat  to  un,  Master, 
think  'ee?  Happen  he'd  'tend  to  you,"  she 
pleaded.  For  Mrs.  Moore  imagined  that  there 
could  be  no  one  but  would  gladly  heed  what 


The   Gray  Dog  n 

James  Moore,  Master  of  Kenmuir,  might  say 
to  him.  "He's  not  a  bad  un  at  bottom,  I  do 
believe,"  she  continued.  "He  never  took  on 
so  till  his  missus  died.  Eh,  but  he  was  main 
fond  o'  her." 

Her  husband  shook  his  head. 

"  Nay,  mother, "  he  said.  "  'Twould  nob'but 
mak'  it  worse  for  t'  lad.  M'Adam'd  listen  to 
no  one,  let  alone  me."  And,  indeed,  he  was 
right;  for  the  tenant  of  the  Grange  made  no 
secret  of  his  animosity  for  his  straight-going, 
straight-speaking  neighbor. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Owd  Bob,  in  the  mean  time,  had  escorted  the 
children  to  the  larch-copse  bordering  on  the 
lane  which  leads  to  the  village.  Now  he 
crept  stealthily  back  to  the  yard,  and  estab- 
lished himself  behind  the  water-butt. 

How  he  played  and  how  he  laughed;  how 
he  teased  old  Whitecap  till  that  gray  gander 
all  but  expired  of  apoplexy  and  impotence; 
how  he  ran  the  roan  bull-calf,  and  aroused  the 
bitter  wrath  of  a  portly  sow,  mother  of  many, 
is  of  no  account. 

At  last,  in  the  midst  of  his  merry  mischief- 
making,  a  stern  voice  arrested  him. 

"  Bob,  lad,  I  see  'tis  time  we  larned  you  yo' 
letters." 

So  the  business  of  life  began  for  that  dog  of 
whom  the  simple  farmer-folk  of  the  Daleland 
still  love  to  talk, — Bob,  son  of  Battle,  last  of 
the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  SON   OF   HAGAR 

It  is  a  lonely  country,  that  about  the  Was- 
trel-dale. 

Parson  Leggy  Hornbut  will  tell  you  that  his 
is  the  smallest  church  in  the  biggest  parish 
north  of  the  Derwent,  and  that  his  cure  num- 
bers more  square  miles  than  parishioners.  Of 
fells  and  ghylls  it  consists,  of  becks  and  lakes ; 
with  here  a  scattered  hamlet  ai.d  there  a  soli- 
tary hill  sheep-farm.  It  is  a  country  in  which 
sheep  are  paramount ;  and  every  other  Dales- 
man is  engaged  in  that  profession  which  is  as 
old  as  Abel.  And  the  talk  of  the  men  of  the 
land  is  of  wethers  and  gimmers,  of  tup-hoggs, 
ewe  tegs  in  wool,  and  other  things  which  are 
but  fearsome  names  to  you  and  me;  and  al- 
ways of  the  doings  or  misdoings,  the  intel- 
ligence or  stupidity,  of  their  adjutants,  the 
sheep-dogs. 

Of  all  the  Daleland,  the  country  from  the 
Black  Water  to  Grammoch  Pike  is  the  wildest. 
Above  the  tiny  stone-built  village  of  Wastrel- 
dale  the  Muir  Pike  nods  its  massive  head. 
Westward,  the  desolate  Mere  Marches,  from 
which  the  Sylvesters'  great  estate  derives  its 
name,  reach  away  in  mile  on  mile  of  sheep- 


A  Son  of  Hagar  13 

infested,  wind-swept  moorland.  On  the  far 
side  of  the  Marches  is  that  twin  dale  where 
flows  the  gentle  Silver  Lea.  And  it  is  there, 
in  the  paddocks  at  the  back  of  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter,  that,  in  the  late  summer  months, 
the  famous  sheep-dog  Trials  of  the  North  are 
held.  There  that  the  battle  -  for  the  Dale 
Cup,  the  world-known  Shepherds'  Trophy,  is 
fought  out. 

Past  the  little  inn  leads  the  turnpike  road 
to  the  market-centre  of  the  district — Gram- 
moch-towm  At  the  bottom  of  the  paddocks 
at  the  back  of  the  inn  winds  the  Silver  Lea. 
Just  there  a  plank  bridge  crosses  the  stream, 
and,  beyond,  the  Murk  Muir  Pass  crawls  up 
the  sheer  side  of  the  Scaur  on  to  the  Mere 
Marches. 

•  At  the  head  of  the  Pass,  before  it  debouches 
on  to  those  lonely  sheep-walks  which  divide 
the  two  dales,  is  that  hollow,  shuddering  with 
gloomy  possibilities,  aptly  called  the  Devil's 
Bowl.  In  its  centre  the  Lone  Tarn,  weirdly 
suggestive  pool,  lifts  its  still  face  to  the  sky. 
It  was  beside  that  black,  frozen  water,  across 
whose  cold  surface  the  storm  was  swirling  in 
white  snow-wraiths,  that,  man}',  many  years 
ago  (not  in  this  century),  old  Andrew  Moore 
came  upon  the  mother  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of 
Kenmuir. 

In  the  North,  every  one  who  has  heard  of 
the  Muir  Pike — and  who  has  not? — has  heard 
of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir;  every  one  who 


14  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

has  heard  of  the  Shepherds'  Trophy — and  who 
has  not? — knows  their  fame.  In  that  country 
of  good  dogs  and  jealous  masters  the  pride 
of  place  has  long  been  held  unchallenged. 
Whatever  line  may  claim  to  follow  the  Gray 
Dogs  always  lead  the  van.  And  there  is  a 
saying  in  the  land:  "Faithfu'  as  the  Moores 
and  their  tykes." 

•  •  •  .  • 

On  the  top  dresser  to  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place in  the  kitchen  of  Kenmuir  lies  the  family 
Bible.  At  the  end  you  will  find  a  loose  sheet — 
the  pedigree  of  the  Gray  Dogs ;  at  the  begin- 
ning, pasted  on  the  inside,  an  almost  similar 
sheet,  long  since  yellow  with  age — the  family 
register  of  the  Moores  of  Kenmuir. 

Running  your  eye  down  the  loose  leaf,  once, 
twice,  and  again  it  will  be  caught  by  a  small 
red  cross  beneath  a  name,  and  under  the  cross 
the  one  word  "Cup."  Lastly,  opposite  the 
name  of  Rex  son  of  Rally,  are  two  of  those 
proud,  tell-tale  marks.  The  cup  referred  to 
is  the  renowned  Dale  Cup — Champion  Chal- 
lenge Dale  Cup,  open  to  the  world.  Had  Rex 
won  it  but  once  again  the  Shepherds'  Trophy, 
which  many  men  have  lived  to  win,  and  died 
still  striving  after,  would  have  come  to  rest 
forever  in  the  little  gray  house  below  the  Pike. 

It  was  not  to  be,  however.  Comparing  the 
two  sheets,  you  read  beneath  the  dog's  name 
a  date  and  a  pathetic  legend ;  and  on  the  other 
sheet,  written  in  his  son's  boyish  hand,  beneath 


A  Son  of  Hagar  15 

the  name  of  Andrew  Moore  the  same  date  and 
the  same  legend. 

From  that  day  James  Moore,  then  but  a  boy, 
was  master  of  Kenmuir. 

So  past  Grip  and  Rex  and  Rally,  and  a  hun- 
dred others,  until  at  the  foot  of  the  page  you 
come  to  that  last  name — Bob,  son  of  Battle. 

From  the  very  first  the  young  dog  took  to 
his  work  in  a  manner  to  amaze  even  James 
Moore.  For  a  while  he  watched  his  mother, 
Meg,  at  her  business,  and  with  that  seemed  to 
have  mastered  the  essentials  of  sheep  tactics. 

Rarely  had  such  fiery  elan  been  seen  on  the 
sides  of  the  Pike ;  and  with  it  the  young  dog 
combined  a  strange  sobriety,  an  admirable 
patience,  that  justified,  indeed,  the  epithet 
"Owd."  Silent  he  worked,  and  resolute ;  and 
even  in  those  days  had  that  famous  trick  of 
coaxing  the  sheep  to  do  his  wishes ; — blending, 
in  short,  as  Tammas  put  it,  the  brains  of  a 
man  with  the  way  of  a  woman. 

Parson  Leggy,  who  was  reckoned  the  best 
judge  of  a  sheep  or  sheep-dog  'twixt  Tyne  and 
Tweed,  summed  him  up  in  the  one  word 
"Genius."  And  James  Moore  himself,  cau- 
tious man,  was  more  than  pleased. 

In  the  village,  the  Dalesmen,  who  took  a 
personal  pride  in  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir, 
began  to  nod  sage  heads  when  "  oor"  Bob  was 
mentioned.  Jim  Mason,  the  postman,  whose 
word  went  as  far  with  the  villagers  as  Parson 


1 6  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Leggy's  with  the  gentry,  reckoned  he'd  neve* 
seen  a  young  tin  as  so  took  his  fancy. 

That  winter  it  grew  quite  the  recognized 
thing,  when  they  had  gathered  of  a  night 
round  the  fire  in  the  Sylvester  Arms,  with 
Tammas  in  the  centre,  old  Jonas  Maddox  on 
his  right,  Rob  Saunderson  of  the  Holt  on  the 
left,  and  the  others  radiating  away  toward  the 
sides,  for  some  one  to  begin  with : 

"Well,  and  what  o'  oor  Bob,  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton?" 

To  which  Tammas  would  always  make  re- 
ply: 

"Oh,  yo'  ask  Sam'l  there.  He'll  tell  yo' 
better'n  me," — and  would  forthwith  plunge, 
himself,  into  a  yarn. 

And  the  way  in  which,  as  the  story  pro- 
ceeded, Tupper  of  Swinsthwaite  winked  at 
Ned  Hoppin  of  Fellsgarth,  and  Long  Kirby, 
the  smith,  poked  Jem  Burton,  the  publican,  in 
the  ribs,  and  Sexton  Ross  said,  "Ma  word, 
lad !"  spoke  more  eloquently  than  many  words. 

One  man  only  never  joined  in  the  chorus  of 
admiration.  Sitting  always  alone  in  the  back- 
ground, little  M'Adam  would  listen  with  an 
incredulous  grin  on  his  sallow  face. 

"Oh,  ma  certes!  The  devil's  in  the  dog! 
It's  no  cannie  ava!"  he  would  continually  ex- 
claim, as  Tammas  told  his  tale. 

In  the  Daleland  you  rarely  see  a  stranger's 
face.     Wandering  in  the  wild  country  about 


A  Son  of  Hagar  17 

the  twin  dales  at  the  time  of  this  story,  you 
might  have  met  Parson  Leggy,  striding  along 
with  a  couple  of  varmint  terriers  at  his  heels, 
and  young  Cyril  Gilbraith,  whom  he  was  teach- 
ing to  tie  flies  and  fear  God,  beside  him ;  or 
Jim  Mason,  postman  by  profession,  poacher  by 
predilection,  honest  man  and  sportsman  by 
nature,  hurrying  along  with  the  mail-bags  on 
his  shoulder,  a  rabbit  in  his  pocket,  and  the 
faithful  Betsy  a  yard  behind.  Besides  these 
you  might  have  hit  upon  a  quiet  shepherd 
and  a  wise-faced  dog ;  Squire  Sylvester,  going 
his  rounds  upon  a  sturdy  cob;  or,  had  you 
been  lucky,  sweet  Lady  Eleanour  bent  upon 
some  errand  of  mercy  to  one  of  the  many 
tenants. 

It  was  while  the  Squire's  lady  was  driving 
through  the  village  on  a  visit*  to  Tammas's 
slobbering  grandson — it  was  shortly  after  Billy 
Thornton's  advent  into  the  world — that  little 
M' Adam,  standing  in  the  door  of  the  Sylvester 
Arms,  with  a  twig  in  his  mouth  and  a  sneer 
fading  from  his  lips,  made  his  ever-memorable 
remark : 

"Sail!"  he  said,  speaking  in  low,  earnest 
voice;  "  'tis  a  muckle  wumman." 

♦Note. — It  was  this  visit  which  figured  in  the  Grammoch- 
town  Argus  (local  and  radical)  under  the  heading  of  "Al- 
leged Wholesale  Corruption  by  Tory  Agents. "  And  that 
is  why,  on  the  following  market-day,  Herbert  Trotter, 
journalist,  erstwhile  gentleman,  and  Secretary  of  the  Dale 
Trials,  found  himself  trying  to  swim  in  the  public  horse- 
trough. 


1 8  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"What?  What  be  say  in',  mon?"  cried  old 
Jonas,  startled  out  of  his  usual  apathy. 

M'Adam  turned  sharply  on  the  old  man. 

"I  said  the  wumman  wears  a  muckle  hat!" 
he  snapped. 

Blotted  out  as  it  was,  the  observation  still 
remains  —  a  tribute  of  honest  admiration. 
Doubtless  the  Recording  Angel  did  not  pass 
it  by.  That  one  statement  anent  the  gentle 
lady  of  the  manor  is  the  only  personal  remark 
ever  credited  to  little  M'Adam  not  born  of 
malice  and  all  un charitableness.  And  that  is 
why  it  is  ever  memorable.' 

The  little  Scotsman  with  the  sardonic  face 
had  been  the  tenant  of  the  Grange  these  many 
years ;  yet  he  had  never  grown  acclimatized  to 
the  land  of  the  Southron.  With  his  shrivelled 
body  and  weakly  legs  he  looked  among  the 
sturdy,  straight-limbed  sons  of  the  hill-coun- 
try like  some  brown,  wrinkled  leaf  holding  its 
place  amidst  a  galaxy  of  green.  And  as  he 
differed  from  them  physically,  so  he  did  mor- 
ally. 

He  neither  understood  them  nor  attempted 
to.  The  North-country  character  was  an  un- 
solved mystery  to  him,  and  that  after  ten 
years'  study.  "One-half  o'  what  ye  say  they 
doot,  and  they  let  ye  see  it;  t'ither  half  they 
disbelieve,  and  they  tell  ye  so,"  he  once  said. 
And  that  explained  his  attitude  toward  them, 
and  consequently  theirs  toward  him. 

He  stood  entirely  alone;    a  son  of  Hagar, 


A  Son  of  Hagar  19 

mocking.  His  sharp,  ill  tongue  was  rarely 
still,  and  always  bitter.  There  was  hardly  a 
man  in  the  land,  from  Langholm  How  to  the 
market-cross  in  Grammoch-town,  but  had  at 
one  time  known  its  sting,  endured  it  in  si- 
lence,— for  they  are  slow  of  speech,  these  men 
of  the  fells  and  meres, — and  was  nursing  his 
resentment  till  a  day  should  bring  that  chance 
which  always  comes.  And  when  at  the  Syl- 
vester Arms,  on  one  of  those  rare  occasions 
when  M'Adam  was  not  present,  Tammas 
summed  up  the  little  man  in  that  historic 
phrase  of  his,  "  When  he's  drunk  he's  wi'lent, 
and  when  he  bain't  he's  wicious,"  there  was  an 
applause  to  gratify  the  blase"  heart  of  even 
Tammas  Thornton. 

Yet  it  had  not  been  till  his  wife's  death 
that  the  little  man  had  allowed  loose  rein  to 
his  ill-nature.  With  her  firmly  gentle  hand 
no  longer  on  the  tiller  of  his  life,  it  burst  into 
fresh  being.  And  alone  in  the  world  with 
David,  the  whole  venom  of  his  vicious  tem- 
perament was  ever  directed  against  the  boy's 
head.  It  was  as  though  he  saw  in  his  fair- 
haired  son  the  unconscious  cause  of  his  ever- 
living  sorrow.  All  the  more  strange  this, 
seeing  that,  during  her  life,  the  boy  had  been 
to  poor  Flora  M'Adam  as  her  heart's  core. 
And  the  lad  was  growing  up  the  very  an- 
tithesis of  his  father.  Big  and  hearty,  with 
never  an  ache  or  ill  in  the  whole  of  his 
sturdy  young   body;    of   frank,  open  counte- 


20  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

nance;  while  even  his  speech  was  slow  and 
burring  like  any  Dale-bred  boy's.  And  the 
fact  of  it  all,  and  that  the  lad  was  palpably 
more  Englishman  than  Scot — ay,  and  gloried 
in  it — exasperated  the  little  man,  a  patriot 
before  everything,  to  blows.  While,  on  top 
of  it,  David  evinced  an  amazing  pertness  fit  to 
have  tried  a  better  man  than  Adam  M'  Adam. 

On  the  death  of  his  wife,  kindly  Elizabeth 
Moore  had,  more  than  once,  offered  such  help 
to  the  lonely  little  man  as  a  woman  only  can 
give  in  a  house  that  knows  no  mistress.  On 
the  last  of  these  occasions,  after  crossing  the 
Stony  Bottom,  which  divides  the  two  farms, 
and  toiling  up  the  hill  to  the  Grange,  she  had 
met  M'Adam  in  the  door. 

"  Yo'  maun  let  me  put  yo'  bit  things  straight 
for  yo',  mister,"  she  had  said  shyly;  for  she 
feared  the  little  man. 

"Thank  ye,  Mrs.  Moore,"  he  had  answered 
with  the  sour  smile  the  Dalesmen  knew  so 
well,  "but  ye  maun  think  I'm  a  waefu'  crip- 
ple." And  there  he  had  stood,  grinning  sar- 
donically, opposing  his  small  bulk  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  door. 

Mrs.  Moore  had  turned  down  the  hill, 
abashed  and  hurt  at  the  reception  of  her  offer ; 
and  her  husband,  proud  to  a  fault,  had  for- 
bidden her  to  repeat  it.  Nevertheless  her 
motherly  heart  went  out  in  a  great  tender- 
ness for  the  little  orphan  David.  She  knew 
well  the  desolateness  of  his  life;  his  father's 


A  Son  of  Hagar  21 

aversion  from  him,  and  its  inevitable  conse- 
quences. 

It  became  an  institution  for  the  boy  to  call 
every  morning  at  Kenmuir,  and  trot  off  to  the 
village  school  with  Maggie  Moore.  And  soon 
the  lad  came  to  look  on  Kenmuir  as  his  true 
home,  and  James  and  Elizabeth  Moore  as  his 
real  parents.  His  greatest  happiness  was  to  be 
away  from  the  Grange.  And  the  ferret-eyed 
little  man  there  noted  the  fact,  bitterly  resent- 
ed it,  and  vented  his  ill-humor  accordingly. 

It  was  this,  as  he  deemed  it,  uncalled-for 
trespassing  on  his  authority  which  was  the 
chief  cause  of  his  animosity  against  James 
Moore.  The  Master  of  Kenmuir  it  was  at 
whom  he  was  aiming  when  he  remarked  one 
day  at  the  Arms:  "Masel',  I  aye  prefaire  the 
good  man  who  does  no  go  to  church,  to  the 
bad  man  who  does.  But  then,  as  ye  say,  Mr. 
Burton,  I'm  peculiar." 

The  little  man's  treatment  of  David,  exag- 
gerated as  it  was  by  eager  credulity,  became 
at  length  such  a  scandal  to  the  Dale  that  Par- 
son Leggy  determined  to  bring  him  to  task  on 
the  matter. 

Now  M'Adam  was  the  parson's  pet  an- 
tipathy. The  bluff  old  minister,  with  his 
brusque  manner  and  big  heart,  would  have  no 
truck  with  the  man  who  never  went  to  church, 
was  perpetually  in  liquor,  and  never  spoke 
good  of  his  neighbors.  Yet  he  entered  upon 
the  interview  fully  resolved  not  to  be  betrayed 


22  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

into  an  unworthy  expression  of  feeling ;  rather 
to  appeal  to  the  little  man's  better  nature. 

The  conversation  had  not  been  in  progress 
two  minutes,  however,  before  he  knew  that, 
where  he  had  meant  to  be  calmly  persuasive, 
he  was  fast  become  hotly  abusive. 

"You,  Mr.  Hornbut,  wi'  James  Moore  to 
help  ye,  look  after  the  lad's  soul,  I'll  see  to  his 
body,"  the  little  man  was  saying. 

The  parson's  thick  gray  eyebrows  lowered 
threateningly  over  his  eyes. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to 
talk  like  that.  Which  d'you  think  the  more 
important,  soul  or  body?  Oughtn't  you,  his 
father,  to  be  the  very  first  to  care  for  the  boy's 
soul?     If  not,  who  should?     Answer  me,  sir." 

The  little  man  stood  smirking  and  sucking 
his  eternal  twig,  entirely  unmoved  by  the 
other's  heat. 

"Ye're  right,  Mr.  Hornbut,  as  ye  aye  are. 
But  my  argiment  is  this :  that  I  get  at  his  soul 
best  through  his  leetle  carcase." 

The  honest  parson  brought  down  his  stick 
with  an  angry  thud. 

"M'Adam,  you're  a  brute — a  brute!"  he 
shouted.  At  which  outburst  the  little  man 
was  seized  with  a  spasm  of  silent  merriment. 

"  A  fond  dad  first,  a  brute  afterward,  aiblins 
— he!  he!  Ah,  Mr.  Hornbut!  ye  'ford  me 
vast  diversion,  ye  do  indeed,  'my  loved,  my 
honored,  much-respected  friend.'  " 

"If  you  paid  as  much  heed  to  your  boy's 


A  Son  of  Hagar  23 

welfare  as  you  do  to  the  bad  poetry  of  that 
profligate  ploughman " 

An  angry  gleam  shot  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"  D'ye  ken  what  blasphemy  is,  Mr.  Horn- 
but?"  he  asked,  shouldering  a  pace  forward. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  dispute  the  parson 
thought  he  was  about  to  score  a  point,  and 
was  calm  accordingly. 

"  I  should  do;  I  fancy  I've  a  specimen  of  the 
breed  before  me  now.  And  d'you  know  what 
impertinence  is?" 

"I  should  do;  I  fancy  I've — I  wad  say  it's 
what  gentlemen  aften  are  unless  their  mam- 
mies whipped  'em  as  lads." 

For  a  moment  the  parson  looked  as  if  about 
to  seize  his  opponent  and  shake' him. 

"M'Adam,"  he  roared,  "I'll  not  stand  your 
insolences!" 

The  little  man  turned,  scuttled  indoors,  and 
came  running  back  with  a  chair. 

"Permit  me!"  he  said  blandly,  holding  it 
before  him  like  a  haircutter  for  a  customer. 

The  parson  turned  away.  At  the  gap  in  the 
hedge  he  paused. 

"I'll  only  say  one  thing  more,"  he  called 
slowly.  "  When  your  wife,  whom  I  think  we 
all  loved,  lay  dying  in  that  room  above  you, 
she  said  to  you  in  my  presence " 

It  was  M' Adam's  turn  to  be  angry.  He 
made  a  step  forward  with  burning  face. 

"  Aince  and  for  a',  Mr.  Hornbut,"  he  cried 
passionately,  "onderstand  I'll  not  ha'  you  and 


24  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

yer  likes  lay  yer  tongues  on  ma  wife's  memory 
whenever  it  suits  ye.  Ye  can  say  what  ye  like 
aboot  me — lies,  sneers,  snash — and  I'll  say  nae- 
thin'.  I  dinna  ask  ye  to  respect  me;  I  think 
ye  might  do  sae  muckle  by  her,  puir  lass. 
She  never  harmed  ye.  Gin  ye  canna  let  her 
bide  in  peace  where  she  lies  doon  yonder" — 
he  waved  in  the  direction  of  the  churchyard — 
"ye'll  no  come  on  ma  land.  Though  she  is 
dead  she's  mine." 

Standing  in  front  of  his  house,  with  flushed 
face  and  big  eyes,  the  little  man  looked  almost 
noble  in  his  indignation.  And  the  parson, 
striding  away  down  the  hill,  was  uneasily  con- 
scious that  with  him  was  not  the  victory. 


CHAPTER   III 

RED    WULL 

The  winter  came  and  went;  the  lambing 
season  was  over,  and  spring  already  shyly 
kissing  the  land.  And  the  back  of  the  year's 
work  broken,  and  her  master  well  started  on 
a  fresh  season,  M' Adam's  old  collie,  Cuttie 
Sark,  lay  down  one  evening  and  passed  quietly 
away. 

The  little  black-and-tan  lady,  Parson  Leggy 
used  to  say,  had  been  the  only  thing  on  earth 
M'Adam  cared  for.  Certainly  the  two  had 
been  wondrously  devoted;  and  for  many  a 
market-day  the  Dalesmen  missed  the  shrill, 
chuckling  cry  which  heralded  the  pair's  ap- 
proach: "  Weel  done,  Cuttie  Sark!" 

The  little  man  felt  his  loss  acutely,  and,  ac- 
cording to  his  wont,  vented  his  ill-feeling  on 
David  and  the  Dalesmen.  In  return,  Tammas, 
whose  forte  lay  in  invective  and  alliteration, 
called  him  behind  his  back,  "A  wenomous 
one!"  and  "A  wiralent  wiper!"  to  the  ap- 
plause of  tinkling  pewters, 

A  shepherd  without  his  dog  is  like  a  ship 
without  a  rudder,  and  M'Adain  felt  his  loss 
practically  as  well  as  otherwise.  Especially 
did  he  experience  this  on  a  day  when  he  had 


26  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

to  take  a  batch  of  draft- ewes  over  to  Gram- 
moch-town.  To  help  him  Jem  Burton  had  lent 
the  services  of  his  herring-gutted,  herring- 
hearted,  greyhound  lurcher,  Monkey.  But 
before  they  had  well  topped  Braithwaite  Brow, 
which  leads  from  the  village  on  to  the  marches, 
M{  Adam  was  standing  in  the  track  with  a  rock 
in  his  hand,  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  the  ten- 
derest  blandishments  in  his  voice  as  he  coaxed 
the  dog  to  him.  But  Master  Monkey  knew 
too  much  for  that.  However,  after  gambol- 
ling a  while  longer  in  the  middle  of  the  flock, 
a  boulder,  better  aimed  than  its  predecessors, 
smote  him  on  the  hinder  parts  and  sent  him 
back  to  the  Sylvester  Arms,  with  a  sore  tail 
and  a  subdued  heart. 

For  the  rest,  M'  Adam  would  never  have  won 
over  the  sheep-infested  marches  alone  with  his 
convoy  had  it  not  been  for  the  help  of  old 
Saunderson  and  Shep,  who  caught  him  on  the 
way  and  aided  him. 

It  was  in  a  very  wrathful  mood  that  on  his 
way  home  he  turned  into  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter  in  Silverdale. 

The  only  occupants  of  the  tap-room,  as  he 
entered,  were  Teddy  Bolstock,  the  publican, 
Jim  Mason,  with  the  faithful  Betsy  beneath 
his  chair  and  the  post-bags  flung  into  the  cor- 
ner, and  one  long-limbed,  drover-like  man — a 
stranger. 

"And  he  coom  up  to  Mr.  Moore,"  Teddy 
was  saying,  "and  says  he,   Til  gie  ye  twal' 


Red  Wull  27 

pun  for  yon  gray  dog  o*  yourn.'  'Ah,'  says 
Moore,  'yo'  may  gie  me  twal'  hunner'd  and 
yet  you'll  not  get  ma  Bob.' — Eh,  Jim?" 

"And  he  did  thot,"  corroborated  Jim. 
"  ■  Twal'  hunner'd,'  says  he." 

"James  Moore  and  his  dog  agin!"  snapped 
M'Adam.  "There's  ithers  in  the  warld  for- 
bye  them  twa." 

"Ay,  but  none  like  'em,"  quoth  loyal  Jim. 

"  Na,  thanks  be.  Gin  there  were  there'd  be 
no  room  for  Adam  M'Adam  in  this  'melan- 
choly vale. ' " 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  and  then — : 

"You're  wantin'  a  tyke,  bain't  you,  Mr. 
M'Adam?"  Jim  asked. 

The  little  man  hopped  round  all  in  a 
hurry. 

"What!"  he  cried  in  well-affected  eager- 
ness, scanning  the  yellow  mongrel  beneath  the 
chair.  "  Betsy  for  sale !  Guid  life !  Where's 
ma  check-book?"  Whereat  Jim,  most  easily 
snubbed  of  men,  collapsed. 

M'Adam  took  off  his  dripping  coat  and 
crossed  the  room  to  hang  it  on  a  chair-back. 
The  stranger  drover  followed  the  meagre, 
shirt-clad  figure  with  shifty  eyes;  then  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  mug. 

M'Adam  reached  out  a  hand  for  the  chair; 
and  as  he  did  so,  a  bomb  in  yellow  leapt  out 
from  beneath  it,  and,  growling  horribly,  at- 
tacked his  ankles. 

"Curse  ye!"  cried  M'Adam,  starting  back. 


28  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"Ye  devil,  let  me  alone!"  Then  turning 
fiercely  on  the  drover,  "Yours,  mister?"  he 
asked.  The  man  nodded.  "Then  call  him 
aff,  can't  ye?  D— n  ye!"  At  which  Teddy 
Bolstock  withdrew,  sniggering;  and  Jim  Ma- 
son slung  the  post-bags  on  to  his  shoulder 
and  plunged  out  into  the  rain,  the  faithful 
Betsy  following,  disconsolate. 

The  cause  of  the  squall,  having  beaten  off 
the  attacking  force,  had  withdrawn  again  be- 
neath its  chair.  M'Adam  stooped  down,  still 
cursing,  his  wet  coat  on  his  arm,  and  beheld 
a  tiny  yellow  puppy,  crouching  defiant  in  the 
dark,  and  glaring  out  with  fiery  light  eyes. 
Seeing  itself  remarked,  it  bared  its  little  teeth, 
raised  its  little  bristles,  and  growled  a  hideous 
menace. 

A  sense  of  humor  is  many  a  man's  salvation, 
and  was  M' Adam's  one  redeeming  feature. 
The  laughableness  of  the  thing — this  ferocious 
atomy  defying  him — struck  home  to  the  little 
man.  Delighted  at  such  a  display  of  vice  in 
so  tender  a  plant,  he  fell  to  chuckling. 

"Ye  leetle  devil!"  he  laughed.  "He!  he! 
ye  leetle  devil!"  and  flipped  together  finger 
and  thumb  in  vain  endeavor  to  coax  the  puppy 
to  him. 

But  it  growled,  and  glared  more  terribly. 

"Stop  it,  ye  little  snake,  or  I'll  flatten  you!" 
cried  the  big  drover,  and  shufEed  his  feet 
threateningly.  Whereat  the  puppy,  gurgling 
like  hot  water  in  a  kettle,  made  a  feint  as 


Red  Wull  29 

though  to  advance  and  wipe  them  out,  these 
two  bad  men. 

M'Adam  laughed  again,  and  smote  his  leg. 

"Keep  a  ceevil  tongue  and  yer  distance,'* 
says  he,  "  or  I'll  e'en  ha'  to  mak'  ye.  Though 
he  is  but  as  big  as  a  man's  thumb,  a  dog's  a 
dog  for  a'  that — he!  he!  the  leetle  devil." 
And  he  fell  to  flipping  finger  and  thumb 
afresh. 

"Ye're  maybe  wantin*  a  dog?"  inquired  the 
stranger.     "Yer  friend  said  as  much." 

"Ma  friend  lied;  it's  his  way,"  M'Adam 
replied. 

"I'm  willin'  to  part  wi'  him,"  the  other 
pursued. 

The  little  man  yawned.  "Weel,  I'll  tak' 
him  to  oblige  ye, "  he  said  indifferently. 

The  drover  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It's  givin'  'im  ye,  fairgivin'  *im  ye,  mind! 
But  I'll  do  it!" — he  smacked  a  great  fist  into  a 
hollow  palm.  "Ye  may  have  the  dog  for  a 
pun' — I'll  only  ask  you  a  pun',"  and  he  walked 
away  to  the  window. 

M'Adam  drew  back,  the  better  to  scan  his 
would-be  benefactor;  his  lower  jaw  dropped, 
and  he  eyed  the  stranger  with  a  drolly  sarcas- 
tic air. 

"A  poun',  man!  A  poun' — for  yon  noble 
dorg !"  he  pointed  a  crooked  forefinger  at  the 
little  creature,  whose  scowling  mask  peered 
from  beneath  the  chair.  "  Man,  I  couldna  do 
it.      Na,   na;    ma  conscience    wadna    permit 


30  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

me.  'Twad  be  fair  robbin'  ye.  Ah,  ye  Eng- 
lishmen!" he  spoke  half  to  himself,  and  sadly, 
as  if  deploring  the  unhappy  accident  of  his 
nationality;  "it's  yer  grand,  open-hairted 
generosity  that  grips  a  puir  Scotsman  by  the 
throat.  A  poun' !  and  for  yon !"  He  wagged 
his  head  mournfully,  cocking  it  sideways  the 
better  to  scan  his  subject. 

"Take  him  or  leave  him,"  ordered  the 
drover  truculently,  still  gazing  out  of  the 
window. 

"Wi'  yer  permission  I'll  leave  him," 
M'Adam  answered  meekly. 

"I'm  short  o'  the  ready,"  the  big  man  pur- 
sued, "or  I  wouldna  part  with  him.  Could  I 
bide  me  time  there's  many'd  be  glad  to  give 

me  a  tenner  for   one   o'    that  bree "   he 

caught  himself  up  hastily — "  for  a  dog  sic  as 
that." 

"And  yet  ye  offer  him  me  for  a  poun'! 
Noble  indeed!" 

Nevertheless  the  little  man  had  pricked  his 
ears  at  the  other's  slip  and  quick  correction. 
Again  he  approached  the  puppy,  dangling  his 
coat  before  him  to  protect  his  ankles;  and 
again  that  wee  wild  beast  sprang  out,  seized 
the  coat  in  its  small  jaw,  and  worried  it  sav- 
agely. 

M'Adam  stooped  quickly  and  picked  up  his 
tiny  assailant;  and  the  puppy,  suspended  by 
its  neck,  gurgled  and  slobbered;  then,  wrig- 
gling desperately  round,  made  its  teeth  meet 


Red  Wull  31 

in  its  adversary's  shirt.  At  which  M'Adam 
shook  it  gently  and  laughed.  Then  he  set  to 
examining  it. 

Apparently  some  six  weeks  old;  a  tawny 
coat,  fiery  eyes,  a  square  head  with  small, 
cropped  ears,  and  a  comparatively  immense 
jaw;  the  whole  giving  promise  of  great 
strength,  if  little  beauty.  And  this  effect  was 
enhanced  by  the  manner  of  its  docking.  For 
the  miserable  relic  of  a  tail,  yet  raw,  looked 
little  more  than  a  red  button  adhering  to  its 
wearer's  stern. 

M' Adam's  inspection  was  as  minute  as  it 
was  apparently  absorbing ;  he  omitted  nothing 
from  the  square  muzzle  to  the  lozenge-like  scut. 
And  every  now  and  then  he  threw  a  quick  glance 
at  the  man  at  the  window,  who  was  watching 
the  careful  scrutiny  a  thought  uneasily. 

"  Ye've  cut  him  short,"  he  said  at  length, 
swinging  round  on  the  drover. 

"Ay;  strengthens  their  backs,"  the  big 
man  answered  with  averted  gaze. 

M' Adam's  chin  went  up  in  the  air;  his 
mouth  partly  opened  and  his  eyelids  partly 
closed  as  he  eyed  his  informant. 

"Oh,  ay,"  he  said. 

"Gie  him  back  to  me,"  ordered  the  drover 
surlily.  He  took  the  puppy  and  set  it  on  the 
floor;  whereupon  it  immediately  resumed  its 
former  fortified  position.  "Ye 're  no  buyer; 
I  knoo  that  all  along  by  that  face  on  ye»"  he 
said  in  insulting  tones. 


32  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Ye  wad  ha'  bought  himyersel',  nae  doot?" 
M'Adam  inquired  blandly. 

"In  course;  if  you  says  so." 

"Or  aiblins  ye  bred  him?" 

"'Appen  I  did." 

"  Ye'll  no  be  from  these  parts?" 

"Will  I  no?"  answered  the  other. 

A  smile  of  genuine  pleasure  stole  over 
M' Adam's  face.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
other's  arm. 

"Man,"  he  said  gently,  "ye  mind  me  o' 
hame."  Then  almost  in  the  same  breath: 
"Ye  said  ye  found  him?" 

It  was  the  stranger's  turn  to  laugh. 

"Ha!  ha!  Ye  teeckle  me,  little  mon. 
Found  'im?  Nay;  I  was  give  'im  by  a  friend. 
But  there's  nowt  amiss  wi'  his  breedin',  ye 
may  believe  me." 

The  great  fellow  advanced  to  the  chair  un- 
der which  the  puppy  lay.  It  leapt  out  like  a 
lion,  and  fastened  on  his  huge  boot. 

"A  rare  bred  un,  look  'ee!  a  rare  game  un. 
Ma  word,  he's  a  big-hearted  un !  Look  at  the 
back  on  him ;  see  the  jaws  to  him ;  mark  the 
pluck  of  him !"  He  shook  his  booted  foot  fierce- 
ly, tossing  his  leg  to  and  fro  like  a  tree  in  a 
wind.  But  the  little  creature,  now  raised  ceiling- 
ward,  now  dashed  to  the  ground,  held  on  with 
incomparable  doggedness,  till  its  small  jaw  was 
all  bloody,  and  muzzle  wrinkled  with  the  effort. 

"Ay,  ay,  that'll  do,"  M'Adam  interposed, 
irritably. 


Red  Wull  33 

The  drover  ceased  his  efforts. 

"  Now,  I'll  mak'  ye  a  last  offer."  He  thrust 
his  head  down  to  a  level  with  the  other's, 
shooting  out  his  neck.  "It's  throwin'  him 
at  ye,  mind.  'Tain't  buyin'  him  ye'll  be — 
don't  go  for  to  deceive  yourself.  Ye  may 
have  him  for  fifteen  shillin'.  Why  do  I  do  it, 
ye  ask?  Why,  'cos  I  think  ye'll  be  kind  to 
him,"  as  the  puppy  retreated  to  itb  chair,  leav- 
ing a  spotted  track  of  red  along  its  route. 

"  Ay,  ye  wadna  be  happy  gin  ye  thocht  he'd 
no  a  comfortable  hame,  conseederate  man?" 
M'Adam  answered,  eying  the  dark  track  on 
the  floor.     Then  he  put  on  his  coat. 

"Na,  na,  he's  no  for  me.  Weel,  I'll  no 
detain  ye.  Good-nicht  to  ye,  mister!"  and  he 
made  for  the  door. 

"  A  gran'  worker  he'll  be,"  called  the  drover 
after  him. 

"Ay;  muckle  wark  he'll  mak'  amang  the 
sheep  wi'  sic  a  jaw  and  sic  a  temper.  Weel, 
I  maun  be  steppin'.     Good-nicht  to  ye." 

"Ye'll  niver  have  sich  anither  chanst." 

"Nor  niver  wush  to.  Na,  na;  he'll  never 
mak'  a  sheep-dog" ;  and  the  little  man  turned 
up  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

"Will  he  not?"  cried  the  other  scornfully. 

"  There  niver  yet  was  one  o'  that  line "  he 

stopped  abruptly. 

The  little  man  spun  round. 

"Iss?"  he  said,  as  innocent  as  any  child; 
"ye  were  savin'?" 


34  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  other  turned  to  the  window  and  watched 
the  rain  falling  monotonously. 

"  Ye'll  be  wantin*  wet,"  he  said  adroitly. 

"Ay,  we   could   do   wi*   a   drappin'.     And 
he'll  never  mak'  a  sheep-dog."     He  shoved 
his  cap  down  on  his  head.     "  Weel,  good-nicht 
to  ye!"  and  he  stepped  out  into  the  rain. 
•  •  •  •  • 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  the  bargain  was 
finally  struck. 

Adam  M' Adam's  Red  Wull  became  that 
little  man's  property  for  the  following  realiz- 
able assets :  ninepence  in  cash — three  coppers 
and  a  doubtful  sixpence ;  a  plug  of  suspicious 
tobacco  in  a  well-worn  pouch ;  and  an  old  watch. 

"It's  clean  givin'  *im  ye,"  said  the  stranger 
bitterly,  at  the  end  of  the  deal. 

"It's  mair  the  charity  than  aught  else 
mak's  me  sae  leeberal,"  the  other  answered 
gently.     "  I  wad  not  like  to  see  ye  pinched." 

"Thank  ye  kindly,"  the  big  man  replied 
with  some  acerbity,  and  plunged  out  into  the 
darkness  and  rain.  Nor  was  that  long-limbed 
drover-man  ever  again  seen  in  the  country- 
side. And  the  puppy's  previous  history — ■ 
whether  he  was  honestly  come  by  or  no, 
whether  he  was,  indeed,  of  the  famous  Red 
McCulloch  *  strain,  ever  remained  a  mystery 
in  the  Daleland. 

*N.  B.— You  may  know  a  Red  McCulloch  anywhere  by 
the  ring  of  white  upon  his  tail  some  two  inches  from  the 
root. 


CHAPTER   IV 

FIRST  BLOOD 

After  that  first  encounter  in  the  Dales- 
man's Daughter,  Red  Wull,  for  so  M'Adam 
called  him,  resigned  himself  complacently  to 
his  lot;  recognizing,  perhaps,  his  destiny. 

Thenceforward  the  sour  little  man  and  the 
vicious  puppy  grew,  as  it  were,  together.  The 
two  were  never  apart.  Where  M'Adam  was, 
there  was  sure  to  be  his  tiny  attendant,  bris- 
tling defiance  as  he  kept  ludicrous  guard  over 
his  master. 

The  little  man  and  his  dog  were  inseparable. 
M'Adam  never  left  him  even  at  the  Grange. 

"  I  couldna  trust  ma  Wullie  at  hame  alone 
wi'  the  dear  lad, "  was  his  explanation.  "  I  ken 
weel  I'd  come  back  to  find  a  wee  corpse  on 
the  floor,  and  David  singin' : 

'My  heart  is  sair,  I  daur  na  tell, 
My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody. ' 

Ay,  and  he'd  be  sair  elsewhere  by  the  time 
I'd  done  wi'  him — he!  he!" 

The  sneer  at  David's  expense  was  as  char- 
acteristic as  it  was  unjust.  For  though  the 
puppy  and  the  boy  were  already  sworn  ene- 
mies, yet  the  lad  would  have  scorned  to  harm 
so  small  a  foe.     And  many  a  tale  did   David 


36  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

tell  at  Kenmuir  of  Red  Willi's  viciousness,  of 
his  hatred  of  him  (David),  and  his  devotion 
to  his  master ;  how,  whether  immersed  in  the 
pig-bucket  or  chasing  the  fleeting  rabbit,  he 
would  desist  at  once,  and  bundle,  panting,  up 
at  his  master's  call ;  how  he  routed  the  tom- 
cat and  drove  him  from  the  kitchen ;  and  how 
he  clambered  on  to  David's  bed  and  pinned 
him  murderously  by  the  nose. 

Of  late  the  relations  between  M'Adam  and 
James  Moore  had  been  unusually  strained. 
Though  they  were  neighbors,  communications 
between  the  two  were  of  the  rarest ;  and  it  was 
for  the  first  time  for  many  a  long  day  that,  on 
an  afternoon  shortly  after  Red  Wull  had  come 
into  his  possession,  M'Adam  entered  the  yard 
of  Kenmuir,  bent  on  girding  at  the  master  for 
an  alleged  trespass  at  the  Stony  Bottom. 

"  Wi'  yer  permission,  Mr.  Moore,"  said  the 
little  man,  "I'll  wheestle  ma  dog,"  and,  turn- 
ing, he  whistled  a  shrill,  peculiar  note  like  the 
cry  of  a  disturbed  peewit. 

Straightway  there  came  scurrying  desper- 
ately up,  ears  back,  head  down,  tongue  out, 
as  if  the  world  depended  on  his  speed,  a  little 
tawny  beetle  of  a  thing,  who  placed  his  fore- 
paws  against  his  master's  ankles  and  looked 
up  into  his  face;  then,  catching  sight  of  the 
strangers,  hurriedly  he  took  up  his  position 
between  them  and  M'Adam,  assuming  his 
natural  attitude  of  grisly  defiance.  Such  a 
laughable  spectacle  he  made,  that  martial  mite. 


First  Blood  37 

standing  at  bay  with   bristles  up   and   teeth 
bared,  that  even  James  Moore  smiled. 

"Ma  word!  Ha'  yo'  brought  his  muzzle, 
man?"  cried  old  Tammas,  the  humorist;  and, 
turning,  climbed  all  in  a  heat  on  to  an  up- 
turned bucket  that  stood  by.  Whereat  the 
puppy,  emboldened  by  his  foe's  retreat,  ad- 
vanced savagely  to  the  attack,  buzzing  round 
the  slippery  pail  like  a  wasp  on  a  window- 
pane,  in  vain  attempt  to  reach  the  old  man. 

Tammas  stood  on  the  top,  hitching  his 
trousers  and  looking  down  on  his  assailant, 
the  picture  of  mortal  fear. 

"'Elp!  Oh,  'elp!"  he  bawled.  "Send  for 
the  sogers!  fetch  the  p'lice!  For  lawk-a- 
mussy's  sake  call  him  off,  man!"  Even  Sam'l 
Todd,  watching  the  scene  from  the  cart-shed, 
was  tickled  and  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw, 
heartily  backed  by  'Enry  and  oor  Job.  While 
M'Adam  remarked:  "Ye' re  fitter  for  a  stage 
than  a  stable-bucket,  Mr.  Thornton." 

"How  didst  coom   by  him?"  asked   Tam- 
mas, nodding  at  the  puppy. 

"Found  him,"  the  little  man  replied,  suck- 
ing his  twig.  "Found  him  in  ma  stockin' 
on  ma  birthday.  A  present  from  ma  lee  tie 
David  for  his  auld  dad,  I  doot." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Tammas,  and  was  seized 
with  a  sudden  spasm  of  seemingly  causeless 
merriment.  For  looking  up  as  M'Adam  was 
speaking,  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  boy's 
fair  head,  peering  cautiously  round  the  cow- 


38  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

shed,  and,  behind,  the  flutter  of  short  petti- 
coats. They  disappeared  as  silently  as  they 
had  come ;  and  two  small  figures,  just  returned 
from  school,  glided  away  and  sought  shelter 
in  the  friendly  darkness  of  a  coal-hole. 

"Coom  awa',  Maggie,  coom  awa'!  'Tis  th' 
owd  un,  'isself /'whispered  a  disrespectful  voice. 

M'Adam  looked  round  suspiciously. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  sharply. 

At  the  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Moore  put 
her  head  out  of  the  kitchen  window. 

"Coom  thy  ways  in,  Mister  M'Adam,  and 
tak'  a  soop  o'  tea,"  she  called  hospitably. 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  Mrs.  Moore,  I  will,"  he 
answered,  politely  for  him.  And  this  one 
good  thing  must  be  allowed  of  Adam  M'Adam : 
that,  if  there  was  only  one  woman  of  whom  he 
was  ever  known  to  speak  well,  there  was  also 
only  one,  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life, 
against  whom  he  ever  insinuated  evil — and 
that  was  years  afterward,  when  men  said  his 
brain  was  sapped.  Flouts  and  jeers  he  had 
for  every  man,  but  a  woman,  good  or  bad, 
was  sacred  to  him.  For  the  sex  that  had 
given  him  his  mother  and  his  wife  he  had 
that  sentiment  of  tender  reverence  which,  if 
a  man  still  preserve,  he  cannot  be  altogether 
bad.  As  he  turned  into  the  house  he  looked 
back  at  Red  Wull. 

"Ay,  we  may  leave  him,"  he  said.  "That 
is,  gin  ye're  no  afraid,  Mr.  Thornton?" 


First  Blood  39 

Of  what  happened  while  the  men  were  with- 
in doors,  it  is  enough  to  tell  two  things.  First, 
that  Qwd  Bob  was  no  bully.  Second,  this :  In 
the  code  of  sheep-dog  honor  there  is  written  a 
word  in  stark  black  letters;  and  opposite  it 
another  word,  writ  large  in  the  color  of  blood. 
The  first  is  "Sheep-murder";  the  second, 
"Death."  It  is  the  one  crime  only  to  be 
wiped  away  in  blood ;  and  to  accuse  of  the 
crime  is  to  offer  the  one  unpardonable 
insult.  Every  sheep-dog  knows  it,  and  every 
shepherd. 

That  afternoon,  as  the  men  still  talked,  the 
quiet  echoes  of  the  farm  rung  with  a  furious 
animal  cry,  twice  repeated:  "Shot  for  sheep- 
murder" — •"  Shot  for  sheep-murder" ;  followed 
by  a  hollow  stillness. 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  two  men  finished  their  colloquy.  The 
matter  was  concluded  peacefully,  mainly  ow- 
ing to  the  pacifying  influence  of  Mrs.  Moore. 
Together  the  three  went  out  into  the  yard; 
Mrs.  Moore  seizing  the  opportunity  to  shyly 
speak  on  David's  behalf. 

"He's  such  a  good  little  lad,  I  do  think," 
she  was  saying. 

"Ye  should  ken,  Mrs.  Moore,"  the  little 
man  answered,  a  thought  bitterly;  "ye  see 
enough  of  him." 

"Yo'  mun  be  main  proud  of  un,  mester," 
the  woman  continued,  heedless  of  the  sneer: 
"an'  'im  growin'  such  a  gradely  lad." 


40  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  barely  ken  the  lad,"  he  said.  "  By  sight 
I  know  him,  of  course,  but  barely  to  speak  to. 
He's  but  seldom  at  hame." 

"  An*  hoo  proud  his  mother'd  be  if  she  could 
see  him,"  the  woman  continued,  well  aware  of 
his  one  tender  place.  "  Eh,  but  she  was  fond 
o'  him,  so  she  was." 

An  angry  flush  stole  over  the  little  man's 
face.  Well  he  understood  the  implied  rebuke ; 
and  it  hurt  him  like  a  knife. 

"Ay,  ay,  Mrs.  Moore,"  he  began.  Then 
breaking  off,  and  looking  about  him — 
"Where's  ma  Wullie?"  he  cried  excitedly. 
"James  Moore!"  whipping  round  on  the 
Master,  "ma  Wullie's  gone — gone,  I  say!" 

Elizabeth  Moore  turned  away  indignantly. 

"  I  do  declar'  he  tak's  more  fash  after  yon 
little  yaller  beastie  than  iver  he  does  after  his 
own  flesh,"  she  muttered. 

"Wullie,  ma  wee  doggie!  Wullie,  where 
are  ye?  James  Moore,  he's  gone — ma  Wul- 
lie's gone!"  cried  the  little  man,  running 
about  the  yard,  searching  everywhere. 

"Cannot  'a'  gotten  far,'r  said  the  Master,  re- 
assuringly, looking  about  him. 

"Niver  no  tellin\"  said  Sam'l,  appearing 
on  the  scene,  pig-bucket  in  hand.  "  I  misdoot 
yo'll  iver  see  your  dog  agin,  mister."  He 
turned  sorrowfully  to  M'Adam. 

That  little  man,  all  dishevelled,  and  with 
the  perspiration  standing  on  his  face,  came 


First  Blood  41 

hurrying  out  of  the  cow-shed  and  danced  up  to 
the  Master. 

"It's  robbed  I  am — robbed,  I  tell  ye!"  he 
cried  recklessly.  "  Ma  wee  Wull's  bin  stolen 
while  I  was  ben  your  hoose,  James  Moore!" 

"  Yo'  munna  say  that,  ma  mon.  No  robbin' 
at  Kenmuir,"  the  Master  answered  sternly. 

"Then  where  is  he?     It's  for  you  to  say." 

"  I've  ma  own  idee,  I  'ave,"  Sam'l  announced 
opportunely,  pig-bucket  uplifted. 

M'Adam  turned  on  him. 

"  What,  man  ?     What  is  it  ?" 

"I  misdoot  yo'll  iver  see  your  dog  agin, 
mister,"  Sam'l  repeated,  as  if  he  was  supply- 
ing the  key  to  the  mystery. 

"Noo,  Sam'l,  if  yo'  know  owt  tell  it,"  or- 
dered his  master. 

Sam'l  grunted  sulkily. 

"  Wheer's  oor  Bob,  then?"  he  asked. 

At  that  M'Adam  turned  on  the  Master. 

"  'Tis  that,   nae  doot.     It's  yer  gray  dog, 

James  Moore,  yer dog.     I  might  ha'  kent 

it," — and  he  loosed  off  a  volley  of  foul  words. 

"Sweerin'  will  no  find  him,"  said  the  Master 
coldly.     "Noo,  Sam'l." 

The  big  man  shifted  his  feet,  and  looked 
mournfully  at  M'Adam. 

"  'Twas  'appen  'alf  an  hour  agone,  when  I 
sees  oor  Bob  goin'  oot  o'  yard  wi'  little  yaller 
tyke  in  his  mouth.  In  a  minnit  I  looks  agin — 
and  theer!  little  yaller  'un  was  gone,  and  oor 
Bob  a-sittin'   a-lickin'  his  chops.      Gone  for- 


42  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

iver,  I  do  reck'n.  Ah,  yo'  may  well  take  on, 
Tammas  Thornton!"  For  the  old  man  was 
rolling  about  the  yard,  bent  double  with  mer- 
riment. 

M'Adam  turned  on  the  Master  with  the 
resignation  of  despair. 

"Man,  Moore,"  he  cried  piteously,  "it's  yer 
gray  dog  has  murdered  ma  wee  Wull!  Ye 
have  it  from  yer  ain  man." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  Master  encouragingly. 
"'Tisbut  yon  girt  oof." 

Sam'l  tossed  his  head  and  snorted. 

"Coom,  then,  and  I'll  show  yo',"  he  said, 
and  led  the  way  out  of  the  yard.  And  there 
below  them  on  the  slope  to  the  stream,  sitting 
like  Justice  at  the  Courts  of  Law,  was  Owd 
Bob. 

Straightway  Sam'l,  whose  humor  was  some- 
thing of  the  calibre  of  old  Ross's,  the  sexton, 
burst  into  horse-merriment.  "  Why's  he  sit- 
tin'  so  still,  think  'ee?  Ho!  ho!  See  un 
lickin'  his  chops — ha!  ha!" — and  he  roared 
afresh.  While  from  afar  you  could  hear  the 
distant  rumbling  of  'Enry  and  oor  Job. 

At  the  sight,  M'Adam  burst  into  a  storm  of 
passionate  invective,  and  would  have  rushed 
on  the  dog  had  not  James  Moore  forcibly  re- 
strained him. 

"Bob,  lad,"  called  the  Master,  "coom  here!" 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  the  gray  dog  cocked 
his  ears,  listened  a  moment,  and  then  shot 
down  the  slope.     At  the  same  moment  Tarn- 


First  Blood  43 

mas  hallooed:  "Theer  he  be!  yon's  yaller  un 
coomin'  oot  o'  drain!  La,  Sam'l!"  And 
there,  indeed,  on  the  slope  below  them,  a 
little  angry,  smutty-faced  figure  was  crawling 
out  of  a  rabbit-burrow. 

"Ye  murderin'  devil,  wad  ye  daur  touch  ma 
Wullie?"  yelled  M'Adam,  and,  breaking 
away,  pursued  hotly  down  the  hill;  for  the 
gray  dog  had  picked  up  the  puppy,  like  a 
lancer  a  tent-peg,  and  was  sweeping  on,  his 
captive  in  his  mouth,  toward  the  stream. 

Behind,  hurried  James  Moore  and  Sam'l, 
wondering  what  the  issue  of  the  comedy  would 
be.  After  them  toddled  old  Tammas,  chuck- 
ling. While  over  the  yard-wall  was  now  a 
little  cluster  of  heads:  'Enry,  oor  Job,  Maggie 
and  David,  and  Vi'let  Thornton,  the  dairy- 
maid. 

Straight  on  to  the  plank-bridge  galloped 
Owd  Bob.  In  the  middle  he  halted,  leant 
over,  and  dropped  his  prisoner ;  who  fell  with 
a  cool  plop  into  the  running  water  beneath. 

Another  moment  and  M'Adam  had  reached 
the  bank  of  the  stream.  In  he  plunged, 
splashing  and  cursing,  and  seized  the  strug- 
gling puppy;  then  waded  back,  the  waters 
surging  about  his  waist,  and  Red  Wull,  limp 
as  a  wet  rag,  in  his  hand.  The  little  man's 
hair  was  dripping,  for  his  cap  was  gone ;  his 
clothes  clung  to  him,  exposing  the  miserable- 
ness  of  his  figure ;  and  his  eyes  blazed  like  hot 
ashes  in  his  wet  face. 


44  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

He  sprang  on  to  the  bank,  and,  beside  him- 
self with  passion,  rushed  at  Owd  Bob. 

"  Curse  ye  for  a " 

"Stan'  back,  or  yo'll  have  him  at  your 
throat!"  shouted  the  Master,  thundering  up. 
"Stan'  back,  I  say,  yo'  fule!"  And,  as  the 
little  man  still  came  madly  on,  he  reached 
forth  his  hand  and  hurled  him  back;  at  the 
same  moment,  bending,  he  buried  the  other 
hand  deep  in  Owd  Bob's  shaggy  neck.  It  was 
but  just  in  time ;  for  if  ever  the  fierce  desire 
of  battle  gleamed  in  gray  eyes,  it  did  in  the 
young  dog's  as  M'Adam  came  down  on  him. 

The  little  man  staggered,  tottered,  and  fell 
heavily.  At  the  shock,  the  blood  gushed  from 
his  nose,  and,  mixing  with  the  water  on  his 
face,  ran  down  in  vague  red  streams,  dripping 
off  his  chin;  while  Red  Wull,  jerked  from 
his  grasp,  was  thrown  afar,  and  lay  motionless. 

"Curse  ye!"  M'Adam  screamed,  his  face 
dead- white  save  for  the  running  red  about  his 
jaw.  "  Curse  ye  for  a  cowardly  Englishman !" 
and,  struggling  to  his  feet,  he  made  at  the 
Master. 

But  Sam'l  interposed  his  great  bulk  between 
the  two. 

"Easy,  little  mon,"  he  said  leisurely,  re- 
garding the  small  fury  before  him  with  mourn- 
ful interest.  "Eh,  but  thee  do  be  a  little 
spit-cat,  surely!" 

James  Moore  stood,  breathing  deep,  his 
hand  still  buried  in  Owd  Bob's  coat. 


First  Blood  45 

"If  yo'd  touched  him,"  he  explained,  " 1 
couldna  ha'  stopped  him.  He'd  ha'  mauled 
yo'  afore  iver  I  could  ha'  had  him  off. 
They're  bad  to  hold,  the  Gray  Dogs,  when 
they're  roosed." 

"Ay,  ma  word,  that  they  are!"  corroborated 
Tammas,  speaking  from  the  experience  of 
sixty  years.     "  Once  on,  yo'  canna  get  'em  off. " 

The  little  man  turned  away. 

"  Ye're  all  agin  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
shook.  A  pitiful  figure  he  made,  standing 
there  with  the  water  dripping  from  him.  A 
red  stream  was  running  slowly  from  his  chin ; 
his  head  was  bare,  and  face  working. 

James  Moore  stood  eying  him  with  some 
pity  and  some  contempt.  Behind  was  Tam- 
mas, enjoying  the  scene.  While  Sam'l  re- 
garded them  all  with  an  impassive  melancholy. 

M'Adam  turned  and  bent  over  Red  Wull, 
who  still  lay  like  a  dead  thing.  As  his  master 
handled  him,  the  button- tail  quivered  feebly; 
he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  about  him,  snarled 
faintly,  and  glared  with  devilish  hate  at  the 
gray  dog  and  the  group  with  him. 

The  little  man  picked  him  up,  stroking  him 
tenderly.  Then  he  turned  away  and  on  to  the 
bridge.  Half-way  across  he  stopped.  It  rattled 
feverishly  beneath  him,  for  he  still  trembled 
like  a  palsied  man. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  called,  striving  to  quell 
the  agitation  in  his  voice — "  I  wad  shoot  yon 
dog." 


46  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Across  the  bridge  he  turned  again. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  called  and  paused. 
"Ye'll  not  forget  this  day."  And  with  that 
the  blood  flared  up  a  dull  crimson  into  his 
white  face. 


PART  II 


THE  LITTLE   MAN 


CHAPTER  V 

A   MAN'S   SON 

The  storm,  long  threatened,  having  once 
burst,  M'  Adam  allowed  loose  rein  to  his  bitter 
animosity  against  James  Moore. 

The  two  often  met.  For  the  little  man  fre- 
quently returned  home  from  the  village  by  the 
footpath  across  Kenmuir.  It  was  out  of  his 
way,  but  he  preferred  it  in  order  to  annoy  his 
enemy  and  keep  a  watch  upon  his  doings. 

He  haunted  "Kenmuir  like  its  evil  genius. 
His  sallow  face  was  perpetually  turning  up 
at  inopportune  moments.  When  Kenmuir 
Queen,  the  prize  short-horn  heifer,  calved  un- 
expectedly and  unattended  in  the  dip  by  the 
lane,  Tammas  and  the  Master,  summoned 
hurriedly  by  Owd  Bob,  came  running  up  to 
find  the  little  man  leaning  against  the  stile, 
and  shaking  with  silent  merriment.  Again, 
poor  old  Staggy,  daring  still  in  his  dotage, 
took  a  fall  while  scrambling  on  the  steep  banks 
of  the  Stony  Bottom.  There  he  lay  for  hours, 
unnoticed  and  kicking,  until  James  Moore  and 
Owd  Bob  came  upon  him  at  length,  nearly 
exhausted.  But  M'Adam  was  before  them. 
Standing  on  the  far  bank  with  Red  Wull  by 
his  side,  he  called  across  the  gulf  with  appar- 


50  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

ent  concern:  "He's  bin  so  sin'  yesternight." 
Often  James  Moore,  with  all  his  great  strength 
of  character,  could  barely  control  himself. 

There  were  two  attempts  to  patch  up  the 
feud.  Jim  Mason,  who  went  about  the  world 
seeking  to  do  good,  tried  in  his  shy  way  to  set 
things  right.  But  M'  Adam  and  his  Red  Wull 
between  them  soon  shut  him  and  Betsy  up. 

"You  mind  yer  letters  and  yer  wires,  Mr. 
Poacher- Postman.  Ay,  I  saw  'em  baith:  th' 
ain  doon  by  the  Haughs,  t'ither  in  the  Bot- 
tom. And  there's  Wullie,  the  humorsome 
chiel,  havin'  a  rare  game  wi'  Betsy."  There, 
indeed,  lay  the  faithful  Betsy,  suppliant  on 
her  back,  paws  up,  throat  exposed,  while  Red 
Wull,  now  a  great-grown  puppy,  stood  over 
her,  his  habitually  evil  expression  intensified 
into  a  fiendish  grin,  as  with  wrinkled  muzzle 
and  savage  wheeze  he  waited  for  a  movement 
as  a  pretext  to  pin :  "  Wullie,  let  the  leddy  be 
— ye've  had  yer  dinner." 

Parson  Leggy  was  the  other  would-be  medi- 
ator; for  he  hated  to  see  the  two  principal 
parishioners  of  his  tiny  cure  at  enmity.  First 
he  tackled  James  Moore  on  the  subject;  but 
that  laconic  person  cut  him  short  with,  "  I've 
nowt  agin  the  little  mon,"  and  would  say  no 
more.  And,  indeed,  the  quarrel  was  none  of 
his  making. 

Of  the  parson's  interview  with  M'Adam,  it 
is  enough  to  say  here  that,  in  the  end,  the 
angry  old  minister  would  of  a  surety  have  as- 


A  Man's  Son  51 

saulted  liis  mocking  adversary  had  not  Cyril 
Gilbraith  forcibly  withheld  him. 

And  after  that  the  vendetta  must  take  its 
course  unchecked. 

David  was  now  the  only  link  between  the 
two  farms.  Despite  his  father's  angry  com- 
mands, the  boy  clung  to  his  intimacy  with  the 
Moores  with  a  doggedness  that  no  thrashing 
could  overcome.  Not  a  minute  of  the  day 
when  out  of  school,  holidays  and  Sundays  in- 
cluded, but  was  passed  at  Kenmuir.  It  was 
not  till  late  at  night  that  he  would  sneak  back 
to  the  Grange,  and  creep  quietly  up  to  his  tiny 
bare  room  in  the  roof — not  supperless,  indeed, 
motherly  Mrs.  Moore  had  seen  to  that.  And 
there  he  would  lie  awake  and  listen  with  a 
fierce  contempt  as  his  father,  hours  later, 
lurched  into  the  kitchen  below,  lilting  liquor- 
ishly : 

"We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou, 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw', 
And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree !" 

And  in  the  morning  the  boy  would  slip 
quietly  out  of  the  house  while  his  father  still 
slept ;  only  Red  Wull  would  thrust  out  his  sav- 
age head  as  the  lad  passed,  and  snarl  hungrily. 
Sometimes  father  and  son  would  go  thus 
for  weeks  without  sight  of  one  another.  And 
that  was  David's  aim — to  escape  attention. 
It  was  only  his  cunning  at  this  game  of  eva- 
sion that  saved  him  many  a  thrashing. 


52  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  little  man  seemed  devoid  of  all  natural 
affection  for  his  son.  He  lavished  the  whole 
fondness  of  which  his  small  nature  appeared 
capable  on  the  Tailless  Tyke,  for  so  the  Dales- 
men called  Red  Wull.  And  the  dog  he  treated 
with  a  careful  tenderness  that  made  David 
smile  bitterly. 

The  little  man  and  his  dog  were  as  alike 
morally  as  physically  they  were  contrasted. 
Each  owed  a  grudge  against  the  world  and 
was  determined  to  pay  it.  Each  was  an  Ish- 
mael  among  his  kind. 

You  saw  them  thus,  standing  apart,  leper- 
like, in  the  turmoil  of  life ;  and  it  came  quite 
as  a  revelation  to  happen  upon  them  in  some 
quiet  spot  of  nights,  playing  together,  each 
wrapped  in  the  game,  innocent,  tender,  forget- 
ful of  the  hostile  world. 

The  two  were  never  separated  except  only 
when  M'Adam  came  home  by  the  path  across 
Kenmuir.  After  that  first  misadventure  he 
never  allowed  his  friend  to  accompany  him  on 
the  journey  through  the  enemy's  country;  for 
well  he  knew  that  sheep-dogs  have  long  mem- 
ories. 

To  the  stile  in  the  lane,  then,  Red  Wull 
would  follow  him.  There  he  would  stand,  his 
great  head  poked  through  the  bars,  watching 
his  master  out  of  sight ;  and  then  would  turn 
and  trot,  self-reliant  and  defiant,  sturdy  and 
surly,  down  the  very  centre  of  the  road  through 
the  village — no  playing,  no  enticing  away,  and 


A  Man's  Son  53 

woe  to  that  man  or  dog  who  tried  to  stay  him 
in  his  course!  And  so  on,  past  Mother  Ross's 
shop,  past  the  Sylvester  Arms,  to  the  right  by 
Kirby's  smithy,  over  the  Wastrel  by  the 
Haughs,  to  await  his  master  at  the  edge  of  the 
Stony  Bottom. 

The  little  man,  when  thus  crossing  Ken- 
muir,  often  met  Owd  Bob,  who  had  the  free 
run  of  the  farm.  On  these  occasions  he  passed 
discreetly  by;  for,  though  he  was  no  coward, 
yet  it  is  bad,  single-handed,  to  attack  a  Gray 
Dog  of  Kenmuir ;  while  the  dog  trotted  soberly 
on  his  way,  only  a  steely  glint  in  the  big  gray 
eyes  betraying  his  knowledge  of  the  presence 
of  his  foe.  As  surely,  however,  as  the  little 
man,  in  his  desire  to  spy  out  the  nakedness  of 
the  land,  strayed  off  the  public  path,  so  surely 
a  gray  figure,  seeming  to  spring  from  out  the 
blue,  would  come  fiercely,  silently  driving 
down  on  him ;  and  he  would  turn  and  run  for 
his  life,  amid  the  uproarious  jeers  of  any  of 
the  farm-hands  who  were  witness  to  the  en- 
counter. 

On  these  occasions  David  vied  with  Tam- 
mas  in  facetiousness  at  his  father's  expense. 

"Good  on  yo',  little  un!"  he  roared  from 
behind  a  wall,  on  one  such  occurrence. 

"Bain't  he  a  runner,  neither?"  yelled  Tam- 
mas,  not  to  be  outdone.  "See  un  skip  it — 
ho!  ho!" 

"Look  to  his  knees  a-wamblin'!"  from  the 
undutiful  son  in  ecstasy.     "  An'  I'd  knees  like 


54  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

yon,  I'd  wear  petticoats."  As  he  spoke,  a 
swinging  box  on  the  ear  nearly  knocked  the 
young  reprobate  down. 

"  D'yo'  think  God  gave  you  a  dad  for  you  to 
jeer  at?  Y' ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  yo'self. 
Serve  yo'  right  if  he  does  thrash  yo'  when  yo' 
get  home."  And  David,  turning  round,  found 
James  Moore  close  behind  him,  his  heavy  eye- 
brows lowering  over  his  eyes. 

Luckily,  M'Adam  had  not  distinguished  his 
son's  voice  among  the  others.  But  David 
feared  he  had;  for  on  the  following  morning 
the  little  man  said  to  him : 

"  David,  ye'll  come  hame  immediately  after 
school  to-day." 

"Will  I?"  said  David  pertly. 

"Ye  will." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  tell  ye  to,  ma  lad" ;  and  that  was 
all  the  reason  he  would  give.  Had  he  told 
the  simple  fact  that  he  wanted  help  to  drench 
a  "husking"  ewe,  things  might  have  gone 
differently.  As  it  was,  David  turned  away 
defiantly  down  the  hill. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Schooltime  was 
long  over;  still  there  was  no  David. 

The  little  man  waited  at  the  door  of  the 
Grange,  fuming,  hopping  from  one  leg  to  the 
other,  talking  to  Red  Wull,  who  lay  at  his 
feet,  his  head  on  his  paws,  like  a  tiger  waiting 
for  his  prey. 

At    length    he   could   restrain   himself    n© 


A  Man's  Son  55 

longer;  and  started  running  down  the  hill,  his 
heart  burning  with  indignation. 

"Wait  till  we  lay  hands  on  ye,  ma  lad,"  he 
muttered  as  he  ran.  "  We'll  warm  ye,  we'll 
teach  ye." 

At  the  edge  of  the  Stony  Bottom  he,  as 
always,  left  Red  Wull.  Crossing  it  himself, 
and  rounding  Langholm  How,  he  espied  James 
Moore,  David,  and  Owd  Bob  walking  away 
from  him  and  in  the  direction  of  Kenmuir. 
The  gray  dog  and  David  were  playing  to- 
gether, wrestling,  racing,  and  rolling.  The 
boy  had  never  a  thought  for  his  father. 

The  little  man  ran  up  behind  them,  unseen 
and  unheard,  his  feet  softly  pattering  on  the 
grass.  His  hand  had  fallen  on  David's  shoul- 
der before  the  boy  had  guessed  his  approach. 

"Did  I  bid  ye  come  hame  after  school, 
David?"  he  asked,  concealing  his  heat  beneath 
a  suspicious  suavity. 

"Maybe.     Did  I  say  I  would  come?" 

The  pertness  of  tone  and  words,  alike, 
fanned  his  father's  resentment  into  a  blaze. 
In  a  burst  of  passion  he  lunged  forward  at  the 
boy  with  his  stick.  But  as  he  smote,  a  gray 
whirlwind  struck  him  fair  on  the  chest,  and  he 
fell  like  a  snapped  stake,  and  lay,  half  stunned, 
with  a  dark  muzzle  an  inch  from  his  throat. 

"Git  back,  Bob!"  shouted  James  Moore, 
hurrying  up.  "Git  back,  I  tell  yo' !"  He 
bent  over  the  prostrate  figure,  propping  it  up 
anxiously.      "Are  yo'  hurt,  M'Adam?      Eh, 


56  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

but  I  am  sorry.  He  thought  yo'  were  goin' 
for  to  strike  the  lad." 

David  had  now  run  up,  and  he,  too,  bent 
over  his  father  with  a  very  scared  face. 

"Are  yo'  hurt,  feyther?"  he  asked,  his 
voice  trembling. 

The  little  man  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet 
and  shook  off  his  supporters.  His  face  was 
twitching,  and  he  stood,  all  dust-begrimed, 
looking  at  his  son. 

"Ye're  content,  aiblins,  noo  ye've  seen  yer 
father's  gray  head  bowed  in  the  dust,"  he 
said. 

"  'Twas  an  accident,"  pleaded  James  Moore. 
"But  I  am  sorry.  He  thought  yo'  were  goin' 
to  beat  the  lad." 

"So  I  was— so  I  will." 

"If  ony's  beat  it  should  be  ma  Bob  here, 
tho'  he  nob 'but  thought  he  was  doin'  right. 
An'  yo'  were  aff  the  path." 

The  little  man  looked  at  his  enemy,  a  sneer 
on  his  face. 

"Ye  canna  thrash  him  for  doin'  what  ye  bid 
him.  Set  yer  dog  on  me,  if  ye  will,  but  dinna 
beat  him  when  he  does  yer  biddin' !" 

"I  did  not  set  him  on  yo',  as  you  know," 
the  Master  replied  warmly. 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'll  no  argie  wi'  ye,  James  Moore,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  leave  you  and  what  ye  call  yer  conscience 
to  settle  that.  My  business  is  not  wi'  you. 
— David!"  turning  to  his  son. 


A  Man's  Son  57 

A  stranger  might  well  have  mistaken  the 
identity  of  the  boy's  father.  For  he  stood 
now,  holding  the  Master's  arm;  while  a  few 
paces  above  them  was  the  little  man,  pale  but 
determined,  the  expression  on  his  face  betraying 
his  consciousness  of  the  irony  of  the  situation. 

"Will  ye  come  hame  wi'  me  and  have  it 
noo,  or  stop  wi'  him  and  wait  till  ye  get  it?" 
he  asked  the  boy. 

"M'Adam,  I'd  like  yo'  to " 

"  None  o'  that,  James  Moore. — David,  what 
d'ye  say?" 

David  looked  up  into  his  protector's  face. 

"Yo'd  best  go  wi'  your  feyther,  lad,"  said 
the  Master  at  last,  thickly.  The  boy  hesitated, 
and  clung  tighter  to  the  shielding  arm ;  then 
he  walked  slowly  over  to  his  father. 

A  bitter  smile  spread  over  the  little  man's 
face  as  he  marked  this  new  test  of  the  boy's 
obedience  to  the  other. 

"To  obey  his  frien'  he  foregoes  the  pleas- 
ure o'  disobeyin'  his  father,"  he  muttered. 
"  Noble !"  Then  he  turned  homeward,  and  the 
boy  followed  in  his  footsteps. 

James  Moore  and  the  gray  dog  stood  looking 
after  them. 

"  I  know  yo'll  not  pay  off  yer  spite  agin  me 
on  the  lad's  head,  M'Adam,"  he  called,  almost 
appealingly. 

"I'll  do  ma  duty,  thank  ye,  James  Moore, 
wi'oot  respect  o'  persons,"  the  little  man  cried 
back,  never  turning. 


58  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Father  and  son  walked  away,  one  behind 
the  other,  like  a  man  and  his  dog,  and  there 
was  no  word  said  between  them.  Across  the 
Stony  Bottom,  Red  Wull,  scowling  with  bared 
teeth  at  David,  joined  them.  Together  the 
three  went  up  the  hill  to  the  Grange. 

In  the  kitchen  M'Adam  turned. 

"Noo,  I'm  gaein'  to  gie  ye  the  gran' est 
thrashin'  ye  iver  dreamed  of.  Tak'  aff  yer 
coat!" 

The 'boy  obeyed,  and  stood  up  in  his  thin 
shirt,  his  face  white  and  set  as  a  statue's. 
Red  Wull  seated  himself  on  his  haunches  close 
by,  his  ears  pricked,  licking  his  lips,  all  atten- 
tion. 

The  little  man  suppled  the  great  ash-plant 
in  his  hands  and  raised  it.  But  the  expression 
on  the  boy's  face  arrested  his  arm. 

"Say  ye're  sorry  and  I'll  let  yer  aff  easy." 

"I'll  not." 

"One  mair  chance — yer  last!  Say  yer 
'shamed  o'  yersel' !" 

"I'm  not." 

The  little  man  brandished  his  cruel,  white 
weapon,  and  Red  Wull  shifted  a  little  to  ob- 
tain a  better  view. 

"Git  on  wi'  it,"  ordered  David  angrily. 

The  little  man  raised  the  stick  again  and — 
threw  it  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 

It  fell  with  a  rattle  on  the  floor,  and  M'Adam 
turned  away. 

"Ye're  the  pitifulest  son  iver  a  man  had," 


A  Man's  Son  59 

lie  cried  brokenly.  "Gin  a  man's  son  dinna 
haud  to  him,  wha  can  lie  expect  to? — no 
one.  Ye' re  ondootiful,  ye' re  disrespectfu', 
ye're  maist  ilka  thing  ye  shouldna  be;  there's 
but  ae  thing  I  thocht  ye  were  not — a  coward. 
And  as  to  that,  ye've  no  the  pluck  to  say 
ye're  sorry  when,  God  knows,  ye  might  be.  I 
canna  thrash  ye  this  day.  But  ye  shall  gae 
nae  mair  to  school.  I  send  ye  there  to  learn. 
Ye '11  not  learn — ye've  learnt  naethin'  except 
disobedience  to  me — ye  shall  stop  at  hame  and 
work." 

His  father's  rare  emotion,  his  broken  voice 
and  working  face,  moved  David  as  all  the 
stripes  and  jeers  had  failed  to  do.  His  con- 
science smote  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  it  dimly  dawned  on  him  that,  perhaps,  his 
father,  too,  had  some  ground  for  complaint; 
that,  perhaps,  he  was  not  a  good  son. 

He  half  turned. 

"  Feyther " 

"Git  oot  o'  ma  sight!"  M'Adam  cried. 

And  the  boy  turned  and  went. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   LICKING   OR  A   LIE 

Thenceforward  David  buckled  down  to 
work  at  home,  and  in  one  point  only  father 
and  son  resembled — industry.  A  drunkard 
M'Adam  was,  but  a  drone,  no. 

The  boy  worked  at  the  Grange  with  tireless, 
indomitable  energy ;  yet  he  could  never  satisfy 
his  father. 

The  little  man  would  stand,  a  sneer  on  his 
face  and  his  thin  lips  contemptuously  curled, 
and  flout  the  lad's  brave  labors. 

"Is  he  no  a  gran*  worker,  Wullie?  'Tis  a 
pleasure  to  watch  him,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  eyes  turned  heavenward!"  as  the 
boy  snatched  a  hard-earned  moment's  rest. 
"You  and  I,  Wullie,  we'll  brak'  oorsel's  slav- 
in'  for  him  while  he  looks  on  and  laffs." 

And  so  on,  the  whole  day  through,  week  in, 
week  out;  till  he  sickened  with  weariness  of 
it  all. 

In  his  darkest  hours  David  thought  some- 
times to  run  away.  He  was  miserably  alone 
on  the  cold  bosom  of  the  world.  The  very 
fact  that  he  was  the  son  of  his  father  isolated 
him  in  the  Daleland.  Naturally  of  a  reserved 
disposition,  he  had  no  single  friend  outside 
Kenmuir.     And  it  was  only  the  thought  of  his 


A  Licking  or  a  Lie  61 

friends  there  that  withheld  him.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  part  from  them;  they 
were  all  he  had  in  the  world. 

So  he  worked  on  at  the  Grange,  miserably, 
doggedly,  taking  blows  and  abuse  alike  in 
burning  silence.  But  every  evening,  when 
work  was  ended,  he  stepped  off  to  his  other 
home  beyond  the  Stony  Bottom.  And  on 
Sundays  and  holidays — for  of  these  latter  he 
took,  unasking,  what  he  knew  to  be  his  due — 
all  day  long,  from  cock-crowing  to  the  going 
down  of  the  sun,  he  would  pass  at  Kenmuir. 
In  this  one  matter  the  boy  was  invincibly  stub- 
born. Nothing  his  father  could  say  or  do 
sufficed  to  break  him  of  the  habit.  He  endured 
everything  with  white-lipped,  silent  dogged- 
ness,  and  still  held  on  his  way. 

Once  past  the  Stony  Bottom,  he  threw  his 
troubles  behind  him  with  a  courage  that  did 
him  honor.  Of  all  the  people  at  Kenmuir  two 
only  ever  dreamed  the  whole  depth  of  his  un- 
happiness,  and  that  not  through  David.  James 
Moore  suspected  something  of  it  all,  for  he 
knew  more  of  M'Adam  than  did  the  others. 
While  Owd  Bob  knew  it  as  did  no  one  else. 
He  could  tell  it  from  the  touch  of  the  boy's 
hand  on  his  head ;  and  the  story  was  writ  large 
upon  his  face  for  a  dog  to  read.  And  he  would 
follow  the  lad  about  with  a  compassion  in  his 
sad  gray  eyes  greater  than  words. 

David  might  well  compare  his  gray  friend 
at  Kenmuir  with  that  other  at  the  Grange. 


62  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  Tailless  Tyke  had  now  grown  into  an 
immense  dog,  heavy  of  muscle  and  huge  of 
bone.  A  great  bull  head;  undershot  jaw, 
square  and  lengthy  and  terrible ;  vicious,  yel- 
low-gleaming eyes ;  cropped  ears ;  and  an  ex- 
pression incomparably  savage.  His  coat  was 
a  tawny,  lion-like  yellow,  short,  harsh,  dense; 
and  his  back,  running  up  from  shoulder  to 
loins,  ended  abruptly  in  the  knob-like  tail. 
He  looked  like  the  devil  of  a  dogs'  hell. 
And  his  reputation  was  as  bad  as  his  looks. 
He  never  attacked  unprovoked;  but  a  chal- 
lenge was  never  ignored,  and  he  was  greedy 
of  insults.  Already  he  had  nigh  killed  Rob 
Saunderson's  collie,  Shep;  Jem  Burton's 
Monkey  fled  incontinently  at  the  sound  of  his 
approach ;  while  he  had  even  fought  a  round 
with  that  redoubtable  trio,  the  Vexer,  Venus, 
and  Van  Tromp. 

Nor,  in  the  matter  of  war,  did  he  confine 
himself  to  his  own  kind.  His  huge  strength 
and  indomitable  courage  made  him  the  match 
of  almost  anything  that  moved.  Long  Kirby 
once  threatened  him  with  a  broomstick;  the 
smith  never  did  it  again.  While  in  the  Border 
Ram  he  attacked  Big  Bell,  the  Squire's  under- 
keeper,  with  such  murderous  fury  that  it  took 
all  the  men  in  the  room  to  pull  him  off. 

More  than  once  had  he  and  Owd  Bob  essayed 
to  wipe  out  mutual  memories,  Red  Wull,  in 
this  case  only,  the  aggressor.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, while  they  fenced  a  moment  for  that 


A  Licking  or  a  Lie  63 

deadly  throat-grip,  the  value  of  which  each 
knew  so  well,  James  Moore  had  always  seized 
the  chance  to  intervene. 

"That's  right,  hide  him  ahint  yer  petti- 
coats," sneered  M'Adam  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions. 

"Hide?  It'll  not  be  him  I'll  hide,  I  warn 
you,  M'Adam,"  the  Master  answered  grimly, 
as  he  stood,  twirling  his  good  oak  stick  be- 
tween the  would-be  duellists.  Whereat  there 
was  a  loud  laugh  at  the  little  man's  expense. 

It  seemed  as  if  there  were  to  be  other  points 
of  rivalry  between  the  two  than  memories. 
For,  in  the  matter  of  his  own  business — the 
handling  of  sheep — Red  Wull  bid  fair  to  be 
second  only  throughout  the  Daleland  to  the 
Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir.  And  M'Adam  was 
patient  and  painstaking  in  the  training  of  his 
Wullie  in  a  manner  to  astonish  David.  It 
would  have  been  touching,  had  it  not  been  so 
unnatural  in  view  of  his  treatment  of  his  own 
blood,  to  watch  the  tender  carefulness  with 
which  the  little  man  moulded  the  dog  beneath 
his  hands.  After  a  promising  display  he 
would  stand,  rubbing  his  palms  together,  as 
near  content  as  ever  he  was. 

"Weel   done,   Wullie!      Weel  done.     Bide 

a  wee  and  we'll  show  'em  a  thing  or  two,  you 

and  I,  Wullie. 

"  'The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't.' 

For  it's  you  and  I  alane,  lad."     And  the  dog 


64  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

would  trot  tip  to  him,  place  his  great  fore- 
paws  on  his  shoulders,  and  stand  thus  with  his 
great  head  overtopping  his  master's,  his  ears 
back,  and  stump  tail  vibrating. 

You  saw  them  at  their  best  when  thus  to- 
gether, displaying  each  his  one  soft  side  to  the 
other. 

From  the  very  first  David  and  Red  Wull 
were  open  enemies :  under  the  circumstances, 
indeed,  nothing  else  was  possible.  Sometimes 
the  great  dog  would  follow  on  the  lad's  heels 
with  surly,  greedy  eyes,  never  leaving  him 
from  sunrise  to  sundown,  till  David  could 
hardly  hold  his  hands. 

So  matters  went  on  for  a  never-ending  year. 
Then  there  came  a  climax. 

One  evening,  on  a  day  throughout  which 
Red  Wull  had  dogged  him  thus  hungrily, 
David,  his  work  finished,  went  to  pick  up  his 
coat,  which  he  had  left  hard  by.  On  it  lay 
Red  Wull. 

"Git  off  ma  coat!"  the  boy  ordered  angrily, 
marching  up.  But  the  great  dog  never  stirred ; 
he  lifted  a  lip  to  show  a  fence  of  white,  even 
teeth,  and  seemed  to  sink  lower  in  the  ground; 
his  head  on  his  paws,  his  eyes  in  his  forehead. 

"Come  and  take  it!"  he  seemed  to  say. 

Now,  what  between  master  and  dog,  David 
had  endured  almost  more  than  he  could  bear 
that  day. 

"Yo'  won't,  won't  yo',  girt  brute!"  he 
shouted,  and,  bending,  snatched  a  corner  of 


A  Licking  or  a  Lie  65 

the  coat  and  attempted  to  jerk  it  away.  At 
that,  Red  Wull  rose,  shivering,  to  his  feet, 
and  with  a  low  gurgle  sprang  at  the  boy. 

David,  quick  as  a  flash,  dodged,  bent,  and 
picked  up  an  ugly  stake,  lying  at  his  feet. 
Swinging  round,  all  in  a  moment,  he  dealt  his 
antagonist  a  mighty  buffet  on  the  side  of  the 
head.  Dazed  with  the  blow,  the  great  dog 
fell;  then,  recovering  himself,  with  a  terrible, 
deep  roar  he  sprang  again.  Then  it  must 
have  gone  hard  with  the  boy,  fine-grown, 
muscular  young  giant  though  he  was.  For 
Red  Wull  was  now  in  the  first  bloom  of  that 
great  strength  which  earned  him  afterward  an 
undying  notoriety  in  the  land. 

As  it  chanced,  however,  M'Adam  had 
watched  the  scene  from  the  kitchen.  And 
now  he  came  hurrying  out  of  the  house, 
shrieking  commands  and  curses  at  the  comba- 
tants. As  Red  Wull  sprang,  he  interposed 
between  the  two,  head  back  and  eyes  flashing. 
His  small  person  received  the  full  shock  of  the 
charge.  He  staggered,  but  recovered,  and  in 
an  imperative  voice  ordered  the  dog  to  heel. 

Then  he  turned  on  David,  seized  the  stake 
from  his  hand,  and  began  furiously  belabor- 
ing the  boy. 

"I'll  teach  ye  to  strike — a  puir — dumb — 
harmless — creetur,  ye — cruel — cruel — lad!"  he 
^cried.  "  Hoo  daur  ye  strike — ma — Wullie  ? 
yer — father '  s — Wullie  ?  Adam — M'  Adam '  s — 
Red  Wull?"     He  was  panting  from  his  exer- 


66  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

tions,  and  his  eyes  were  blazing.  "  I  pit  up  as 
best  I  can  wi'  all  manner  o'  disrespect  to 
masel' ;  but  when  it  comes  to  'tackin'  ma  puir 
Wullie,  I  canna  thole  it.  Ha'  ye  no  heart?"  he 
asked,  unconscious  of  the  irony  of  the  question. 

"As  much  as  some,  I  reck'n,"  David  mut- 
tered. 

"  Eh,  what's  that?     What  d'ye  say?" 

"  Ye  may  thrash  me  till  ye're  blind ;  and  it's 
nob 'but  yer  duty ;  but  if  ony  one  daurs  so  much 
as  to  look  at  yer  Wullie  ye're  mad,"  the  boy 
answered  bitterly.  And  with  that  he  turned 
away  defiantly  and  openly  in  the  direction  of 
Kenmuir. 

M'Adam  made  a  step  forward,  and  then 
stopped. 

"I'll  see  ye  agin,  ma  lad,  this  evenin',"  he 
cried  with  cruel  significance. 

"  I  doot  but  yo'll  be  too  drunk  to  see  owt — 
except,  'appen,  your  bottle,"  the  boy  shouted 
back ;  and  swaggered  down  the  hill. 

At  Kenmuir  that  night  the  marked  and 
particular  kindness  of  Elizabeth  Moore  was 
too  much  for  the  overstrung  lad.  Overcome 
by  the  contrast  of  her  sweet  motherliness,  he 
burst  into  a  storm  of  invective  against  his 
father,  his  home,  his  life — everything. 

"Don't  'ee,  Davie,  don't  'ee,  dearie!"  cried 
Mrs.  Moore,  much  distressed.  And  taking 
him  to  her  she  talked  to  the  great,  sobbing 
boy  as  though  he  were  a  child.     At  length  he 


A  Licking  or  a  Lie  67 

lifted  his  face  and  looked  up;  and,  seeing  the 
white,  wan  countenance  of  his  dear  comforter, 
was  struck  with  tender  remorse  that  he  had 
given  way  and  pained  her,  who  looked  so  frail 
and  thin  herself. 

He  mastered  himself  with  an  effort;  and,  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  was  his  usual  cheery 
self.  He  teased  Maggie  into  tears;  chaffed 
stolid  little  Andrew ;  and  bantered  Sam'l  Todd 
until  that  generally  impassive  man  threatened 
to  bash  his  snout  for  him. 

Yet  it  was  with  a  great  swallowing  at  his 
throat  that,  later,  he  turned  down  the  slope  for 
home. 

James  Moore  and  Parson  Leggy  accompanied 
him  to  the  bridge  over  the  Wastrel,  and  stood 
a  while  watching  as  he  disappeared  into  the 
summer  night. 

"  Yon's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  Master  half  to 
himself. 

"Yes,"  the  parson  replied;  "I  always 
thought  there  was  good  in  the  boy,  if  only  his 
father' d  give  him  a  chance.  And  look  at  the 
way  Owd  Bob  there  follows  him.  There's  not 
another  soul  outside  Kenmuir  he'd  do  that 
for." 

"  Ay,  sir, "  said  the  Master.  "  Bob  knows  a 
mon  when  he  sees  one." 

"  He  does,"  acquiesced  the  other.  "  And  by 
the  by,  James,  the  talk  in  the  village  is  that 
you've  settled  not  to  run  him  for  the  Cup.  Is 
that  so?" 


68  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

The  Master  nodded. 

i 

"  It  is,  sir.  They're  all  mad  I  should,  but  I 
mun  cross  'em.  They  say  he's  reached  his 
prime — and  so  he  has  o'  his  body,  but  not  o' 
his  brain.  And  a  sheep-dog — unlike  other 
dogs — is  not  at  his  best  till  his  brain  is  ax  its 
best — and  that  takes  a  while  developin',  same 
as  in  a  mon,  I  reck'n." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  parson,  pulling  out  a 
favorite  phrase,  "  waiting's  winning — waiting's 
winning." 

4  *  *  *  * 

David  slipped  up  into  his  room  and  into  bed 
unseen,  he  hoped.  Alone  with  the  darkness, 
he  allowed  himself  the  rare  relief  of  tears; 
and  at  length  fell  asleep.  He  awoke  to  find 
his  father  standing  at  his  bedside.  The  little 
man  held  a  feeble  dip-candle  in  his  hand, 
which  lit  his  sallow  face  in  crude  black  and 
white.  In  the  doorway,  dimly  outlined,  was 
the  great  figure  of  Red  Wull. 

"Whaur  ha'  ye  been  the  day?"  the  little 
man  asked.  Then,  looking  down  on  the  white, 
stained  face  beneath  him,  he  added  hurriedly: 
"  If  ye  like  to  lie,  I'll  believe  ye." 

David  was  out  of  bed  and  standing  up  in  his 
night- shirt.  He  looked  at  his  father  contempt- 
uously. 

"I  ha'  bin  at  Kenmuir.  I'll  not  lie  for  yo' 
or  your  likes,"  he  said  proudly. 

The  little  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"'Tell  a  lee  and  stick  to  it,'  is  my  rule,  and 


A  Licking  or  a  Lie  69 

a  good  one,  too,  in  honest  England.  I  for  one'll 
no  think  ony  the  worse  o'  ye  if  yer  memory 
plays  yer  false." 

"  D'yo'  think  I  care  a  kick  what  yo*  think  o' 
me?"  the  boy  asked  brutally.  "Nay;  there's 
'nough  liars  in  this  fam'ly  wi'oot  me." 

The  candle  trembled  and  was  still  again. 

"A  lickin'  or  a  lie — tak'  yer  choice!" 

The  boy  looked  scornfully  down  on  his 
father.  Standing  on  his  naked  feet,  he  al- 
ready towered  "half  a  head  above  the  other  and 
was  twice  the  man. 

"  D'yo'  think  I'm  fear'd  o'  a  thrashin'  fra 
yo'?  Goo' gracious  me!"  he  sneered.  "Why, 
I'd  as  lief  let  owd  Gammer  Maddox  lick  me, 
for  all  I  care." 

A  reference  to  his  physical  insufficiencies 
fired  the  little  man  as  surely  as  a  lighted  match 
powder. 

"Ye  maun  be  cauld,  standin'  there  so. 
Rin  ye  doon  and  fetch  oor  little  frien'  " — a 
reference  to  a  certain  strap  hanging  in  the 
kitchen.     "I'll  see  if  I  can  warm  ye." 

David  turned  and  stumbled  down  the  unlit, 
narrow  stairs.  The  hard,  cold  boards  struck 
like  death  against  his  naked  feet.  At  his  heels 
followed  Red  Wull,  his  hot  breath  fanning  the 
boy's  bare  legs. 

So  into  the  kitchen  and  back  up  the  stairs, 
and  Red  Wull  always  following. 

"I'll  no  despair  yet  o*  teachin'  ye  the  fifth 
commandment,  though  I  kill  masel'  in  doin' 


7©  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

it!"  cried  the  little  man,  seizing  the  strap  from 
the  boy's  numb  grasp. 

When  it  was  over,  M'Adam  turned,  breath- 
less, away.  At  the  threshold  of  the  room  he 
stopped  and  looked  round:  a  little,  dim-lit, 
devilish  figure,  framed  in  the  door;  while 
from  the  blackness  behind,  Red  Wall's  eyes 
gleamed  yellow. 

Glancing  back,  the  little  man  caught  such  an 
expression  on  David's  face  that  for  once  he 
was  fairly  afraid.  He  banged  the  door  and 
hobbled  actively  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   WHITE   WINTER 

M*  Adam — in  his  sober  moments,  at  least — 
never  touched  David  again ;  instead,  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  more  congenial  exercise  of  the 
whiplash  of  his  tongue.  And  he  was  wise; 
for  David,  who  was  already  nigh  a  head  the 
taller  of  the  two,  and  comely  and  strong  in 
proportion,  could,  if  he  would,  have  taken 
his  father  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  crum- 
pled him  like  a  dry  leaf.  Moreover,  with  his 
tongue,  at  least,  the  little  man  enjoyed  the 
noble  pleasure  of  making  the  boy  wince.  And 
so  the  war  was  carried  on  none  the  less  vin- 
dictively. 

Meanwhile  another  summer  was  passing 
away,  and  every  day  brought  fresh  proofs  of 
the  prowess  of  Owd  Bob.  Tammas,  whose 
stock  of  yarns  anent  Rex  son  of  Rally  had 
after  forty  years'  hard  wear  begun  to  pall  on 
the  loyal  ears  of  even  old  Jonas,  found  no  lack 
of  new  material  now.  In  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter  in  Silverdale  and  in  the  Border  Ram 
at  Grammoch-town,  each  succeeding  market 
day  brought  some  fresh  tale.  Men  told  how 
the  gray  dog  had  outdone  Gypsy  Jack,  the 
sheep-sneak ;  how  he  had  cut  out  a  Kenmuir 


j2  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

shearling  from  the  very  centre  of  Londesley's 
pack ;  and  a  thousand  like  stories. 

The  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir  have  always 
been  equally  heroes  and  favorites  in  the  Dale- 
land.  And  the  confidence  of  the  Dalesmen  in 
Owd  Bob  was  now  invincible.  Sometimes  on 
market  days  he  would  execute  some  unaccount- 
able maneuvre,  and  a  strange  shepherd  would 
ask:  "What's  the  gray  dog  at?"  To  which 
the  nearest  Dalesman  would  reply :  "  Nay,  I 
canna  tell  ye!  But  he's  reet  enough.  Yon's 
Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir." 

Whereon  the  stranger  would  prick  his  ears 
and  watch  with  close  attention. 

"Yon's  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  is  he?"  he 
would  say ;  for  already  among  the  faculty  the 
name  was  becoming  known.  And  never  in 
such  a  case  did  the  young  dog  fail  to  justify 
the  faith  of  his  supporters. 

It  came,  therefore,  as  a  keen  disappointment 
to  every  Dalesman,  from  Herbert  Trotter, 
Secretary  of  the  Trials,  to  little  Billy  Thorn- 
ton, when  the  Master  persisted  in  his  decision 
not  to  run  the  dog  for  the  Cup  in  the  approach- 
ing Dale  Trials;  and  that  though  parson, 
squire,  and  even  Lady  Eleanour  essayed  to 
shake  his  purpose.  It  was  nigh  fifty  years  since 
Rex  son  o'  Rally,  had  won  back  the  Trophy  for 
the  land  that  gave  it  birth ;  it  was  time,  they 
thought,  for  a  Daleland  dog,  a  Gray  Dog  of 
Kenmuir — the  terms  are  practically  synony- 
mous—-to  bring  it  home  again.      And  Tarn- 


The  White  Winter  73 

mas,  that  polished  phrase-maker,  was  only  ex- 
pressing the  feelings  of  every  Dalesman  in  the 
room  when,  one  night  at  the  Arms,  he  declared 
of  Owd  Bob  that  "to  ha'  run  was  to  ha'  won." 
At  which  M'Adam  sniggered  audibly  and 
winked  at  Red  Wull.  "  To  ha'  run  was  to  ha* 
one — lickin' ;  to  rin  next  year '11  be  to " 

"Win  next  year,"  Tammas  interposed  dog- 
matically. "  Onless" — with  shivering  sarcasm 
— "youandyer  Wulliearethinkin'  o'  winnin'." 

The  little  man  rose  from  his  solitary  seat  at 
the  back  of  the  room  and  pattered  across. 

"  Wullie  and  I  are  thinkir '  o't, "  he  whispered 
loudly  in  the  old  man's  ear.  "And  main 
what  Adam  M'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull  think 
o'  doin',  that,  ye  may  remairk,  Mr.  Thornton, 
they  do.  Next  year  we  rin,  and  next  year — 
we  win.  Come,  Wullie,  we'll  leave  'em  to 
chew  that" ;  and  he  marched  out  of  the  room 
amid  the  jeers  of  the  assembled  topers. 
When  quiet  was  restored,  it  was  Jim  Mason 
who  declared :  "  One  thing  certin,  win  or  no, 
they'll  not  be  far  off." 

Meanwhile  the  summer  ended  abruptly. 
Hard  on  the  heels  of  a  sweltering  autumn  the 
winter  came  down.  In  that  year  the  Daleland 
assumed  very  early  its  white  cloak.  The 
Silver  Mere  was  soon  ice-veiled ;  the  Wastrel 
rolled  sullenly  down  below  Kenmuir,  its  creeks 
and  quiet  places  tented  with  jagged  sheets  of 
ice;    while  the   Scaur  and    Muir  Pike  raised 


74  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

hoary  heads  against  the  frosty  blue.  It  was 
the  season  still  remembered  in  the  North  as 
the  White  Winter — the  worst,  they  say,  since 
the  famous  1808. 

For  days  together  Jim  Mason  was  stuck  with 
his  bags  in  the  Dalesman's  Daughter,  and  there 
was  no  communication  between  the  two  Dales. 
On  the  Mere  Marches  the  snow  massed  deep 
and  impassable  in  thick,  billowy  drifts.  In 
the  Devil's  Bowl  men  said  it  lay  piled  some 
score  feet  deep.  And  sheep,  seeking  shelter 
in  the  ghylls  and  protected  spots,  were  buried 
and  lost  in  their  hundreds. 

That  is  the  time  to  test  the  hearts  of  shep- 
herds and  sheep-dogs,  when  the  wind  runs  ice- 
cold  across  the  waste  of  white,  and  the  low 
woods  on  the  upland  walks  shiver  black 
through  a  veil  of  snow,  and  sheep  must  be 
found  and  folded  or  lost:  a  trial  of  head  as 
well  as  heart,  of  resource  as  well  as  resolution. 

In  that  winter  more  than  one  man  and  many 
a  dog  lost  his  life  in  the  quiet  performance  of 
his  duty,  gliding  to  death  over  the  slippery 
snow-shelves,  or  overwhelmed  beneath  an 
avalanche  of  the  warm,  suffocating  white: 
"smoored,"  as  they  call  it.  Many  a  deed  was 
done,  many  a  death  died,  recorded  only  in  that 
Book  which  holds  the  names  of  those — men  or 
animals,  souls  or  no  souls — who  Tried. 

They  found  old  Wrottesley,  the  squire's 
head  shepherd,  lying  one  morning  at  Gill's 
foot,  like  a  statue  in  its  white  bed,  the  snow 


The  White  Winter  75 

gently  blowing  about  the  venerable  face,  calm 
and  beautiful  in  death.  And  stretched  upon 
his  bosom,  her  master's  hands,  blue  and  stiff, 
still  clasped  about  her  neck,  his  old  dog  Jess. 
She  had  huddled  there,  as  a  last  hope,  to  keep 
the  dear,  dead  master  warm,  her  great  heart 
riven,  hoping  where  there  was  no  hope. 

That  night  she  followed  him  to  herd  sheep 
in  a  better  land.  Death  from  exposure,  Ding- 
ley,  the  vet.,  gave  it;  but  as  little  M'Adam, 
his  eyes  dimmer  than  their  wont,  declared 
huskily:  "We  ken  better,  Wullie." 

Cyril  Gilbraith,  a  young  man  not  over- 
burdened with  emotions,  told  with  a  sob  in  his 
voice  how,  at  the  terrible  Rowan  Rock,  Jim 
Mason  had  stood,  impotent,  dumb,  big-eyed, 
watching  Betsy — Betsy,  the  friend  and  partner 
of  the  last  ten  years — slipping  over  the  ice-cold 
surface,  silently  appealing  to  the  hand  that 
had  never  failed  her  before — sliding  to  Eter- 
nity. 

In  the  Daleland  that  winter  the  endurance 
of  many  a  shepherd  and  his  dog  was  strained 
past  breaking-point.  From  the  frozen  Black 
Water  to  the  white-peaked  Grammoch  Pike 
two  men  only,  each  always  with  his  shaggy 
adjutant,  never  owned  defeat;  never  turned 
back ;  never  failed  in  a  thing  attempted. 

In  the  following  spring,  Mr.  Tinkerton,  the 
squire's  agent,  declared  that  James  Moore  and 
Adam  M'Adam — Owd  Bob,  rather,  and  Red 
Wull — had   lost   between    them   fewer   sheep 


76  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

than  any  single  farmer  on  the  whole  March 
Mere  Estate — a  proud  record. 

Of  the  two,  many  a  tale  was  told  that  winter. 
They  were  invincible,  incomparable;  worthy 
antagonists. 

It  was  Owd  Bob  who,  when  he  could  not 
drive  the  band  of  Black  Faces  over  the  narrow 
Razorback  which  led  to  safety,  induced  them 
to  follow  him  across  that  ten-inch  death-track, 
one  by  one,  like  children  behind  their  mis- 
tress. It  was  Red  Wull  who  was  seen  com- 
ing down  the  precipitous  Saddler's  How, 
shouldering  up  that  grand  old  gentleman, 
King  o'  the  Dale,  whose  leg  was  broken. 

The  gray  dog  it  was  who  found  Cyril  Gil- 
braith  by  the  White  Stones,  with  a  cigarette 
and  a  sprained  ankle,  on  the  night  the  whole 
village  was  out  with  lanterns  searching  for  that 
well-loved  young  scapegrace.  It  was  the  Tail- 
less Tyke  and  his  master  who  one  bitter  even- 
ing came  upon  little  Mrs.  Burton,  lying  in  a 
huddle  beneath  the  lea  of  the  fast- whitening 
Druid's  Pillar  with  her  latest  baby  on  her 
breast.  It  was  little  M'  Adam  who  took  off  his 
coat  and  wrapped  the  child  in  it ;  little  M'  Adam 
who  unwound  his  plaid,  threw  it  like  a  breast- 
band  across  the  dog's  great  chest,  and  tied  the 
ends  round  the  weary  woman's  waist.  Red 
Wull  it  was  who  dragged  her  back  to  the  Syl- 
vester Arms  and  life,  straining  like  a  giant 
through  the  snow,  while  his  master  staggered 
behind  with  the  babe  in  his  arms.     When  they 


The  White  Winter  yy 

reached  the  inn  it  was  M'Adam  who,  with  a 
smile  on  his  face,  told  the  landlord  what  he 
thought  of  him  for  sending  his  wife  across  the 
Marches  on  such  a  day  and  on  his  errand.  To 
which:  " I'd  a  cauld,"  pleaded  honest  Jem. 

For  days  together  David  could  not  cross  the 
Stony  Bottom  to  Kenmuir.  His  enforced  con- 
finement to  the  Grange  led,  however,  to  no 
more  frequent  collisions  than  usual  with  his 
father.  For  M'Adam  and  Red  Wull  were  out 
at  all  hours,  in  all  weathers,  night  and  day, 
toiling  at  their  work  of  salvation. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  David  managed  to 
cross  the  Bottom  at  a  point  where  a  fallen 
thorn-tree  gave  him  a  bridge  over  the  soft 
snow.  He  stayed  but  a  little  while  at  Kenmuir, 
yet  when  he  started  for  home  it  was  snowing 
again. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  ice-draped 
bridge  over  the  Wastrel,  a  blizzard  was  raging. 
The  wind  roared  past  him,  smiting  him  so  that 
he  could  barely  stand;  and  the  snow  leaped 
at  him  so  that  he  could  not  see.  But  he  held 
on  doggedly ;  slipping,  sliding,  tripping,  down 
and  up  again,  with  one  arm  shielding  his  face. 
On,  on,  into  the  white  darkness,  blindly  on; 
sobbing,  stumbling,  dazed. 

At  length,  nigh  dead,  he  reached  the  brink 
of  the  Stony  Bottom.  He  looked  up  and  he 
looked  down,  but  nowhere  in  that  blinding 
mist  could  he  see  the  fallen  thorn-tree.  He 
took  a  step  forward  into  the  white  morass,  and 


78  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

sank  up  to  his  thigh.  He  struggled  feebly  to 
free  himself,  and  sank  deeper.  The  snow 
wreathed,  twisting,  round  him  like  a  white 
flame,  and  he  collapsed,  softly  crying,  on  that 
soft  bed. 

"I  canna — I  canna!"  he  moaned. 

Little  Mrs.  Moore,  her  face  whiter  and 
frailer  than  ever,  stood  at  the  window,  look- 
ing out  into  the  storm. 

"I  canna  rest  for  thinkin'  o'  th'  lad;"  she 
said.  Then,  turning,  she  saw  her  husband, 
his  fur  cap  down  over  his  ears,  buttoning  his 
pilot-coat  about  his  throat,  while  Owd  Bob 
stood  at  his  feet,  waiting. 

"Ye're  no  goin',  James?"  she  asked,  anx- 
iously. 

"But  I  am,  lass,"  he  answered;  and  she 
knew  him  too  well  to  say  more. 

So  those  two  went  quietly  out  to  save  life  or 
lose  it,  nor  counted  the  cost. 

Down  a  wind-shattered  slope — over  a  spar  of 
ice — up  an  eternal  hill — a  forlorn  hope. 

In  a  whirlwind  chaos  of  snow,  the  tempest 
storming  at  them,  the  white  earth  lashing 
them,  they  fought  a  good  fight.  In  front, 
Owd  Bob,  the  snow  clogging  his  shaggy  coat, 
his  hair  cutting  like  lashes  of  steel  across  his 
eyes,  his  head  lowered  as  he  followed  the  finger 
of  God;  and  close  behind,  James  Moore,  his 
back  stern  against  the  storm,  stalwart  still,  yet 
swaying  like  a  tree  before  the  wind. 


The  White  Winter  79 

So  they  battled  through  to  the  brink  of  the 
Stony  Bottom — only  to  arrive  too  late. 

For,  just  as  the  Master  peering  about  him, 
had  caught  sight  of  a  shapeless  lump  lying 
motionless  in  front,  there  loomed  across  the 
snow-choked  gulf  through  the  white  riot  of 
the  storm  a  gigantic  figure,  forging  doggedly 
forward,  his  great  head  down  to  meet  the 
hurricane.  And  close  behind,  buffeted  and 
bruised,  stiff  and  staggering,  a  little  dauntless 
figure  holding  stubbornly  on,  clutching  with 
one  hand  at  the  gale;  and  a  shrill  voice, 
whirled  away  on  the  trumpet  tones  of  the 
wind,  crying: 

"Noo,  Wullie,  wi'  me! 

"  'Scots  wha'  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled ! 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  often  led  1 
Welcome  to !' 

Here  he  is,  Wullie ! 

"  '—or  to  victorie  I*" 

The  brave  little  voice  died  away.  The  quest 
was  over ;  the  lost  sheep  found.  And  the  last 
James  Moore  saw  of  them  was  the  same  small, 
gallant  form,  half  carrying,  half  dragging  the 
rescued  boy  out  of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
and  away. 

David  was  none  the  worse  for  his  adventure, 
for  on  reaching  home  M'Adam  produced  a 
familiar  bottle. 

"  Here's  something  to  warm  yer  inside,  and" 
— making  a  feint  at  the  strap  on  the  wall — 


80  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"here's  something  to  do  the  same  by  yer 

But,  Wullie,  oot  again!" 

And  out  they  went — unreckoned  heroes. 

It  was  but  a  week  later,  in  .the  very  heart  of 
the  bitter  time,  that  there  came  a  day  when, 
from  gray  dawn  to  grayer  eve,  neither  James 
Moore  nor  Owd  Bob  stirred  out  into  the 
wintry  white.  And  the  Master's  face  was 
hard  and  set  as  it  always  was  in  time  of  trou- 
ble. 

Outside,  the  wind  screamed  down  the  Dale ; 
while  the  snow  fell  relentlessly ;  softly  finger- 
ing the  windows,  blocking  the  doors,  and  pil- 
ing deep  against  the  walls.  Inside  the  house 
there  was  a  strange  quiet;  no  sound  save  for 
hushed  voices,  and  upstairs  the  shuffling  of 
muffled  feet. 

Below,  all  day  long,  Owd  Bob  patrolled  the 
passage  like  some  silent,  gray  spectre. 

Once  there  came  a  low  knocking  at  the  door ; 
and  David,  his  face  and  hair  and  cap  smoth- 
ered in  the  all-pervading  white,  came  in  with 
an  eddy  of  snow.  He  patted  Owd  Bob,  and 
moved  on  tiptoe  into  the  kitchen.  To  him 
came  Maggie  softly,  shoes  in  hand,  with  white, 
frightened  face.  The  two  whispered  anxiously 
awhile  like  brother  and  sister  as  they  were ; 
then  the  boy  crept  quietly  away ;  only  a  little 
pool  of  water  on  the  floor  and  wet,  treacherous 
foot-dabs  toward  the  door  testifying  to  the 
visitor. 


The  White  Winter  81 

Toward  evening  the  wind  died  down,  but 
the  mourning  flakes  still  fell. 

With  the  darkening  of  night  Owd  Bob  re- 
treated to  the  porch  and  lay  down  on  his 
blanket.  The  light  from  the  lamp  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  shone  through  the  crack  of  open 
door  on  his  dark  head  and  the  eyes  that  never 
slept. 

The  hours  passed,  and  the  gray  knight  still 
kept  his  vigil.  Alone  in  the  darkness — alone, 
it  almost  seemed,  in  the  house — he  watched. 
His  head  lay  motionless  along  his  paws,  but 
the  steady  gray  eyes  never  flinched  or  drooped. 

Time  tramped  on  on  leaden  foot,  and  still 
he  waited;  and  ever  the  pain  of  hovering 
anxiety  was  stamped  deeper  in  the  gray  eyes. 

At  length  it  grew  past  bearing;  the  hollow 
stillness  of  the  house  overcame  him.  He  rose, 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  softly  pattered 
across  the  passage. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  halted,  his  fore- 
paws  on  the  first  step,  his  grave  face  and 
pleading  eyes  uplifted,  as  though  he  were 
praying.  The  dim  light  fell  on  the  raised 
head ;  and  the  white  escutcheon  on  his  breast 
shone  out  like  the  snow  on  Salmon. 

At  length,  with  a  sound  like  a  sob,  he 
dropped  to  the  ground,  and  stood  listening, 
his  tail  dropping  and  head  raised.  Then  he 
turned  and  began  softly  pacing  up  and  down, 
like  some  velvet-footed  sentinel  at  the  gate  of 
death. 


82  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Up  and  down,  tip  and  down,  softly  as  the 
falling  snow,  for  a  weary,  weary  while. 

Again  he  stopped  and  stood,  listening  in- 
tently, at  the  foot  of  the  stairs ;  and  his  gray 
coat  quivered  as  though  there  were  a  draught. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  deathly  stillness  of  the 
house  was  broken.  Upstairs,  feet  were  run- 
ning hurriedly.  There  was  a  cry,  and  again 
silence. 

A  life  was  coming  in ;  a  life  was  going  out. 

The  minutes  passed;  hours  passed;  and,  at 
the  sunless  dawn,  a  life  passed. 

And  all  through  that  night  of  age-long 
agony  the  gray  figure  stood,  still  as  a  statue, 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Only,  when,  with 
the  first  chill  breath  of  the  morning,  a  dry, 
quick-quenched  sob  of  a  strong  man  sorrow- 
ing for  the  helpmeet  of  a  score  of  years,  and  a 
tiny  cry  of  a  new-born  child  wailing  because 
its  mother  was  not,  came  down  to  his  ears,  the 
Gray  Watchman  dropped  his  head  upon  his 
bosom,  and,  with  a  little  whimpering  note, 
crept  back  to  his  blanket. 

A  little  later  the  door  above  opened,  and 
James  Moore  tramped  down  the  stairs.  He 
looked  taller  and  gaunter  than  his  wont,  but 
there  was  no  trace  of  emotion  on  his  face. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Owd  Bob  stole  out 
to  meet  him.  He  came  crouching  up,  head 
and  tail  down,  in  a  manner  no  man  ever  saw 
before  or  since.  At  his  master's  feet  he 
stopped  and  whined  pitifully. 


The  White  Winter  83 

Then,  for  one  short  moment,  James  Moore's 
whole  face  quivered. 

"Well,  lad,"  he  said,  quite  low,  and  his 
voice  broke ;  "  she's  awa' !" 

That  was  all;  for  they  were  an  undemon- 
strative couple. 

Then  they  turned  and  went  out  together 
into  the  bleak  morning. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
m'adam  and  his  coat 

To  David  M'Adam  the  loss  of  gentle  Eliza- 
beth Moore  was  as  real  a  grief  as  to  her  chil- 
dren. Yet  he  manfully  smothered  his  own 
aching  heart  and  devoted  himself  to  comfort- 
ing the  mourners  at  Kenmuir. 

In  the  days  succeeding  Mrs.  Moore's  death 
the  boy  recklessly  neglected  his  duties  at  the 
Grange.  But  little  M'Adam  forbore  to  rebuke 
him.  At  times,  indeed,  he  essayed  to  be  pas- 
sively kind.  David,  however,  was  too  deeply 
sunk  in  his  great  sorrow  to  note  the  change. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  came.  The  earth 
was  throwing  off  its  ice-fetters ;  and  the  Dale 
was  lost  in  a  mourning  mist. 

In  the  afternoon  M'Adam  was  standing  at 
the  window  of  the  kitchen,  contemplating  the 
infinite  weariness  of  the  scene,  when  the  door 
of  the  house  opened  and  shut  noiselessly. 
Red  Wull  raised  himself  on  to  the  sill  and 
growled,  and  David  hurried  past  the  window 
making  for  Kenmuir.  M'Adam  watched  the 
passing  figure  indifferently;  then  with  an 
angry  oath  sprang  to  the  window. 

"Bring  me   back  that  coat,   ye   thief!"  he 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  85 

cried,  tapping  fiercely  on  the  pane.  "  Tak'  it 
aff  at  onst,  ye  muckle  gowk,  or  I'll  come  and 
tear  it  aff  ye.  D'ye  see  him,  Wullie?  the 
great  coof  has  ma  coat — ma  black  coat,  new 
last  Michaelmas,  and  it  rainin'  'nough  to 
melt  it." 

He  threw  the  window  up  with  a  bang  and 
leaned  out. 

"Bring  it  back,  I  tell  ye,  ondootiful,  or  I'll 
summons  ye.  Though  ye've  no  respect  for 
me,  ye  might  have  for  ma  claithes.  Ye're  too 
big  for  yer  ain  boots,  let  alane  ma  coat.  D'ye 
think  I  had  it  cut  for  a  elephant?  It's  burst- 
in',  I  tell  ye.  Tak'  it  aff!  Fetch  it  here, 
or  I'll  e'en  send  Wullie  to  bring  it!" 

David  paid  no  heed  except  to  begin  running 
heavily  down  the  hill.  The  coat  was  stretched 
in  wrinkled  agony  across  his  back ;  his  big,  red 
wrists  protruded  like  shank- bones  from  the 
sleeves ;  and  the  little  tails  flapped  wearily  in 
vain  attempts  to  reach  the  wearer's  legs. 

M'Adam,  bubbling  over  with  indignation, 
scrambled  half  through  the  open  window. 
Then,  tickled  at  the  amazing  impudence  of 
the  thing,  he  paused,  smiled,  dropped  to  the 
ground  again,  and  watched  the  uncouth,  re- 
treating figure  with  chuckling  amusement. 

"Did  ye  ever  see  the  like  o'  that,  Wullie?" 
he  muttered.  "  Ma  puir  coat — puir  wee  coatie ! 
it  gars  me  greet  to  see  her  in  her  pain.  A 
man's  coat,  Wullie,  is  aften  unco  sma'  for  his 
son's  back;  and  David  there  is  strainin'  and 


86  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

stretchin'  her  nigh  to  brakin',  for  a'  the 
world  as  he  does  ma  forbearance.  And  what's 
he  care  aboot  the  one  or  t'ither? — not  a  finger- 
flip." 

As  he  stood  watching  the  disappearing  figure 
there  began  the  slow  tolling  of  the  minute- 
bell  in  the  little  Dale  church.  Now  near,  now 
far,  now  loud,  now  low,  its  dull  chant  rang 
out  through  the  mist  like  the  slow-dropping 
tears  of  a  mourning  world. 

M'Adam  listened,  almost  reverently,  as  the 
bell  tolled  on,  the  only  sound  in  the  quiet  Dale. 
Outside,  a  drizzling  rain  was  falling ;  the  snow 
dribbled  down  the  hill  in  muddy  tricklets; 
and  trees  and  roofs  and  windows  dripped. 

And  still  the  bell  tolled  on,  calling  up  re- 
lentlessly sad  memories  of  the  long  ago. 

It  was  on  just  such  another  dreary  day,  in 
just  such  another  December,  and  not  so  many 
years  gone  by,  that  the  light  had  gone  forever 
out  of  his  life. 

The  whole  picture  rose  as  instant  to  his  eyes 
as  if  it  had  been  but  yesterday.  That  insistent 
bell  brought  the  scene  surging  back  to  him : 
the  dismal  day;  the  drizzle;  the  few  mourn- 
ers ;  little  David  decked  out  in  black,  his  fair 
hair  contrasting  with  his  gloomy  clothes,  his 
face  swollen  with  weeping;  the  Dale  hushed, 
it  seemed,  in  death,  save  for  the  tolling  of  the 
bell ;  and  his  love  had  left  him  and  gone  to  the 
happy  land  the  hymn-books  talk  of. 

Red  Wull,  who  had  been  watching  him  un« 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  87 

easily,  now  came  up  and  shoved  his  muzzle 
into  his  master's  hand.  The  cold  touch 
brought  the  little  man  back  to  earth.  He 
shook  himself,  turned  wearily  away  from  the 
window,  and  went  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

He  stood  there,  looking  out;  and  all  round 
him  was  the  eternal  drip,  drip  of  the  thaw. 
The  wind  lulled,  and  again  the  minute-bell 
tolled  out  clear  and  inexorable,  resolute  to 
recall  what  was  and  what  had  been. 

With  a  choking  gasp  the  little  man  turned 
into  the  house,  and  ran  up  the  stairs  and  into 
his  room.  He  dropped  on  his  knees  beside 
the  great  chest  in  the  corner,  and  unlocked  the 
bottom  drawer,  the  key  turning  noisily  in  its 
socket. 

In  the  drawer  he  searched  with  feverish 
fingers,  and  produced  at  length  a  little  paper 
packet  wrapped  about  with  a  stained  yellow 
ribbon.  It  was  the  ribbon  she  had  used  to 
weave  on  Sundays  into  her  soft  hair. 

Inside  the  packet  was  a  cheap,  heart-shaped 
frame,  and  in  it  a  photograph. 

Up  there  it  was  too  dark  to  see.  The  little 
man  ran  down  the  stairs,  Red  Wull  jostling 
him  as  he  went,  and  hurried  to  the  window  in 
the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  sweet,  laughing  face  that  looked  up 
at  him  from  the  frame,  demure  yet  arch,  shy 
yet  roguish — a  face  to  look  at  and  a  face  to  love. 

As  he  looked  a  wintry  smile,  wholly  tender, 
half  tearful,  stole  over  the  little  man's  face. 


88  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"Lassie,"  he  whispered,  and  his  voice  was 
infinitely  soft,  "it's  lang  sin*  I've  daured  look 
at  ye.  But  it's  no  that  ye 're  forgotten, 
dearie." 

Then  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as 
though  he  were  blinded. 

"Dinna  look  at  me  sae,  lass!"  he  cried,  and 
fell  on  his  knees,  kissing  the  picture,  hugging 
it  to  him  and  sobbing  passionately. 

Red  Wull  came  up  and  pushed  his  face  com- 
passionately into  his  master's;  but  the  little 
man  shoved  him  roughly  away,  and  the  dog 
retreated  into  a  corner,  abashed  and  reproach- 
ful. 

Memories  swarmed  back  on  the  little  man. 

It  was  more  than  a  decade  ago  now,  and  yet 
he  dared  barely  think  of  that  last  evening 
when  she  had  lain  so  white  and  still  in  the 
little  room  above. 

"Pit  the  bairn  on  the  bed,  Adam  man,"  she 
had  said  in  low  tones.  "  I'll  be  gaein'  in  a  wee 
while  noo.  It's  the  lang  good-by  to  you — and 
him." 

He  had  done  her  bidding  and  lifted  David 
up.  The  tiny  boy  lay  still  a  moment,  looking 
at  this  white-faced  mother  whom  he  hardly 
recognized. 

"Minnie!"  he  called  piteously.  Then, 
thrusting  a  small,  dirty  hand  into  his  pocket, 
he  pulled  out  a  grubby  sweet. 

"Minnie,  ha'  a  sweetie — ain  o'  Davie's 
sweeties!"  and  he  held  it  out  anxiously  in  his 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  89 

warm,  plump  palm,  thinking  it  a  certain  cure 
for  any  ill. 

"Eat  it  for  mither,"  she  said,  smiling  ten- 
derly ;  and  then :  "  Davie,  ma  heart,  I'm  leavin* 

ye." 

The  boy  ceased  sucking  the  sweet,  and 
looked  at  her,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  droop- 
ing pitifully. 

"Ye're  no  gaein'  awa',  mither?"  he  asked, 
his  face  all  working.  "  Ye'll  no  leave  yer  wee 
laddie?" 

"Ay,  laddie,  awa' — reet  awa*.  He's  callin' 
me."  She  tried  to  smile;  but  her  mother's 
heart  was  near  to  bursting. 

"Ye'll  tak'  yer  wee  Davie  wi'  ye,  mither!" 
the  child  pleaded,  crawling  up  toward  her  face. 

The  great  tears  rolled,  unrestrained,  down 
her  wan  cheeks,  and  M*  Adam,  at  the  head  of 
the  bed,  was  sobbing  openly. 

"Eh,  ma  bairn,  ma  bairn,  I'm  sair  to  leave 
ye!"  she  cried  brokenly.  "Lift  him  for  me, 
Adam." 

He  placed  the  child  in  her  arms ;  but  she 
was  too  weak  to  hold  him.  So  he  laid  him 
upon  his  mother's  pillows;  and  the  boy 
wreathed  his  soft  arms  about  her  neck  and 
sobbed  tempestuously. 

And  the  two  lay  thus  together. 

Just  before  she  died,  Flora  turned  her  head 
and  whispered: 

"Adam,  ma  man,  ye'll  ha'  to  be  mither  and 
father  baith  to  the  lad  noo" ;  and  she  looked 


90  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

at  him  with  tender   confidence  in   her  dying 
eyes. 

"I  wull!  afore  God  as  I  stan'  here  I  wull!" 
he  declared  passionately.  Then  she  died,  and 
there  was  a  look  of  ineffable  peace  upon  her 
face. 

"  Mither  and  father  baith !" 

The  little  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  flung  the 
photograph  from  him.  Red  Wull  pounced 
upon  it;  but  M'Adam  leapt  at  him  as  he 
mouthed  it. 

"Git  awa',  ye  devil!"  he  screamed;  and, 
picking  it  up,  stroked  it  lovingly  with  trem- 
bling fingers. 

"  Mither  and  father  baith !" 

How  had  he  fulfilled  his  love's  last  wish? 
How! 

"  O  God  lM — and  he  fell  upon  his  knees  at  the 
table-side,  hugging  the  picture,  sobbing  and 
praying. 

Red  Wull  cowered  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
room,  and  then  crept  whining  up  to  where  his 
master  knelt.  But  M'Adam  heeded  him  not, 
and  the  great  dog  slunk  away  again. 

There  the  little  man  knelt  in  the  gloom  of 
the  winter's  afternoon,  a  miserable  penitent. 
His  gray-flecked  head  was  bowed  upon  his 
arms ;  his  hands  clutched  the  picture ;  and  he 
prayed  aloud  in  gasping,  halting  tones. 

"  Gie  me  grace,  O  God !  'Father  and  mither 
baith,'  ye  said,  Flora — and  I  ha'na  done  it. 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  91 

But  'tis  no  too  late — say  it's  no,  lass.  Tell 
me  there's  time  yet,  and  say  ye  forgie  me. 
I've  tried  to  bear  wi'  him  mony  and  mony  a 
time.  But  he's  vexed  me,  and  set  himself 
agin  me,  and  stiffened  my  back,  and  ye  ken 
hoo  I  was  aye  quick  to  tak'  offence.  But  I'll 
mak'  it  up  to  him — mak'  it  up  to  him,  and  mair. 
I'll  humble  masel'  afore  him,  and  that'll  be 
bitter  enough.  And  I'll  be  father  and  mither 
baith  to  him.  But  there's  bin  none  to  help 
me;  and  it's  bin  sair  wi'oot  ye.  And — but, 
eh,  lassie,  I'm  wearyin'  for  ye!" 

It  was  a  dreary  little  procession  that  wound 
in  the  drizzle  from  'Kenmuir  to  the  little  Dale 
church.  At  the  head  stalked  James  Moore, 
and  close  behind  David  in  his  meagre  coat. 
While  last  of  all,  as  if  to  guide  the  stragglers 
in  the  weary  road,  came  Owd  Bob. 

There  was  a  full  congregation  in  the  tiny 
church  now.  In  the  squire's  pew  were  Cyril 
Gilbraith,  Muriel  Sylvester,  and,  most  con- 
spicuous, Lady  Eleanour.  Her  slender  figure 
was  simply  draped  in  gray,  with  gray  fur 
about  the  neck  and  gray  fur  edging  sleeves 
and  jacket;  her  veil  was  lifted,  and  you  could 
see  the  soft  hair  about  her  temples,  like  waves 
breaking  on  white  cliffs,  and  her  eyes  big  with 
tender  sympathy  as  she  glanced  toward  the 
pew  upon  her  right. 

For  there  were  the  mourners  from  Kenmuir : 
the  Master,  tall,  grim,  and  gaunt;  and  beside 


92  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

him  Maggie,  striving  to  be  calm,  and  little 
Andrew,  the  miniature  of  his  father. 

Alone,  in  the  pew  behind,  David  M'Adam 
in  his  father's  coat. 

The  back  of  the  church  was  packed  with 
farmers  from  the  whole  March  Mere  Estate ; 
friends  from  Silverdale  and  Grammoch-town  ; 
and  nearly  every  soul  in  Wastrel-dale,  come 
to  show  their  sympathy  for  the  living  and 
reverence  for  the  dead. 

At  last  the  end  came  in  the  wet  dreariness 
of  the  little  churchyard,  and  slowly  the  mourn- 
ers departed,  until  at  length  were  left  only  the 
parson,  the  Master,  and  Owd  Bob. 

The  parson  was  speaking  in  rough,  short 
accents,  digging  nervously  at  the  wet  ground. 
The  other,  tall  and  gaunt,  his  face  drawn  and 
half-averted,  stood  listening.  By  his  side  was 
Owd  Bob,  scanning  his  master's  countenance, 
a  wistful  compassion  deep  in  the  sad  gray  eyes ; 
while  close  by,  one  of  the  parson's  terriers  was 
nosing  inquisitively  in  the  wet  grass. 

Of  a  sudden,  James  Moore,  his  face  still 
turned  away,  stretched  out  a  hand.  The  par- 
son, broke  off  abruptly  and  grasped  it.  Then 
the  two  men  strode  away  in  opposite  directions, 
the  terrier  hopping  on  three  legs  and  shaking 
the  rain  off  his  hard  coat. 

David's  steps  sounded  outside.  M'Adam 
rose  from  his  knees.     The  door  of  the  house 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  93 

opened,  and  the  boy's  feet  shuffled  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

"David!"  the  little  man  called  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

He  stood  in  the  half-light,  one  hand  on  the 
table,  the  other  clasping  the  picture.  His 
eyes  were  bleared,  his  thin  hair  all  tossed,  and 
he  was  shaking. 

"David,"  he  called  again;  "I've  somethin' 
I  wush  to  say  to  ye!" 

The  boy  burst  into  the  room.  His  face  was 
stained  with  tears  and  rain ;  and  the  new  black 
coat  was  wet  and  slimy  all  down  the  front, 
and  on  the  elbows  were  green-brown,  muddy 
blots.  For,  on  his  way  home,  he  had  flung 
himself  down  in  the  Stony  Bottom  just  as  he 
was,  heedless  of  the  wet  earth  and  his  father's 
coat,  and,  lying  on  his  face  thinking  of  that 
second  mother  lost  to  him,  had  wept  his  heart 
out  in  a  storm  of  passionate  grief. 

Now  he  stood  defiantly,  his  hand  upon  the 
1oor. 

"Whatd'yo'  want?" 

The  little  man  looked  from  him  to  the  pic- 
ture in  his  hand. 

"Help  me,  Flora — he'll  no,"  he  prayed. 
Then,  raising  his  eyes,  he  began:  "  I'd  like  to 
say — I've  bin  thinkin' — I  think  I  should  tell 
ye — it's  no  an  easy  thing  for  a  man  to  say " 

He  broke  off  short.  The  self-imposed  task 
was  almost  more  than  he  could  accomplish. 

He  looked  appealingly  at  David.     But  there 


94  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

was  no  glimmer  of  understanding  in  that  white, 
set  countenance. 

"O  God,  it's  maist  mair  than  I  can  do!"  the 
little  man  muttered;  and  the  perspiration 
stood  upon  his  forehead.  Again  he  began: 
"  David,  after  I  saw  ye  this  afternoon  steppin' 
doon  the  hill " 

Again  he  paused.  His  glance  rested  un- 
consciously upon  the  coat.  David  mistook  the 
look ;  mistook  the  dimness  in  his  father's  eyes ; 
mistook  the  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"Here  'tis!  tak'  yo'  coat!"  he  cried  pas- 
sionately ;  and,  tearing  it  off,  flung  it  down  at 
his  father's  feet.  "  Tak'  it — and — and — curse 
yo'." 

He  banged  out  of  the  room  and  ran  upstairs ; 
and,  locking  himself  in,  threw  himself  on  to 
his  bed  and  sobbed. 

Red  Wull  made  a  movement  to  fly  at  the 
retreating  figure;  then  turned  to  his  master, 
his  stump-tail  vibrating  with  pleasure. 

But  little  M'Adam  was  looking  at  the  wet 
coat  now  lying  in  a  wet  bundle  at  his  feet. 

"Curse  ye,"  he  repeated  softly.  "Curse  ye 
— ye  heard  him,  Wullie?" 

A  bitter  smile  crept  across  his  face.  He 
looked  again  at  the  picture  now  lying  crushed 
in  his  hand. 

"Ye  canna  say  I  didna  try;  ye  canna  ask 
me  to  agin,"  he  muttered,  and  slipped  it  into 
his  pocket.  "Niver  agin,  Wullie;  not  if  the 
Queen  were  to  ask  it." 


M'Adam  and  His  Coat  95 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  gloom  and  drizzle, 
still  smiling  the  same  bitter  smile. 


That  night,  when  it  came  to  closing-time  at 
the  Sylvester  Arms,  Jem  Burton  found  a  little 
gray-haired  figure  lying  on  the  floor  in  the 
tap-room.  At  the  little  man's  head  lay  a  great 
dog. 

"Yo'  beast!"  said  the  righteous  publican, 
regarding  the  figure  of  his  best  customer  with 
fine  scorn.  Then  catching  sight  of  a  photo- 
graph in  the  little  man's  hand: 

"Oh,  yo're  that  sort,  are  yo',  foxy?"  he 
leered.  "  Gie  us  a  look  at  'er,"  and  he  tried  to 
disengage  the  picture  from  the  other's  grasp. 
But  at  the  attempt  the  great  dog  rose,  bared 
his  teeth,  and  assumed  such  a  diabolical  ex- 
pression that  the  big  landlord  retreated  hur- 
riedly behind  the  bar. 

"Two  on  ye!"  he  shouted  viciously,  rattling 
his  heels ;  "  beasts  baith !" 


PART  III 


THE  SHEPHERDS'   TROPHY 


CHAPTER   IX 

RIVALS 

M'Adam  never  forgave  his  son.  After  the 
scene  on  the  evening  of  the  funeral  there  could 
be  no  alternative  but  war  for  all  time.  The 
little  man  had  attempted  to  humble  himself, 
and  been  rejected;  and  the  bitterness  of  de- 
feat, when  he  had  deserved  victory,  rankled 
like  a  poisoned  barb  in  his  bosom. 

Yet  the  heat  of  his  indignation  was  directed 
not  against  David,  but  against  the  Master  of 
Kenmuir.  To  the  influence  and  agency  of 
James  Moore  he  attributed  his  discomfiture, 
and  bore  himself  accordingly.  In  public  or  in 
private,  in  tap-room  or  market,  he  never 
wearied  of  abusing  his  enemy. 

"Feel  the  loss  o'  his  wife,  d'ye  say?"  he 
would  cry.  "  Ay,  as  muckle  as  I  feel  the  loss 
o'  my  hair.  James  Moore  can  feel  naethin', 
I  tell  ye,  except,  aiblins,  a  mischance  to  his 
meeserable  dog." 

When  the  two  met,  as  they  often  must,  it 
was  always  M'  Adam's  endeavor  to  betray  his 
enemy  into  an  unworthy  expression  of  feeling. 
But  James  Moore,  sorely  tried  as  he  often 
was,  never  gave  way.  He  met  the  little  man's 
sneers  with  a  quelling  silence,  looking  down 


ioo  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

on  his  asp-tongued  antagonist  with  such  a  con- 
tempt flashing  from  his  blue-gray  eyes  as  hurt 
his  adversary  more  than  words. 

Only  once  was  he  spurred  into  reply.  It 
was  in  the  tap-room  of  the  Dalesman's  Daugh- 
ter on  the  occasion  of  the  big  spring  fair  in 
Grammoch-town,  when  there  was  a  goodly 
gathering  of  farmers  and  their  dogs  in  the 
room. 

M'Adam  was  standing  at  the  fireplace  with 
Red  Wull  at  his  side. 

"It's  a  noble  pairt  ye  play,  James  Moore," 
he  cried  loudly  across  the  room,  "settin'  son 
against  father,  and  dividin'  hoose  against  hoose. 
It's  worthy  o'  ye  wi'  yer  churchgoin',  and 
yer  psalm-singin',  and  yer  godliness." 

The  Master  looked  up  from  the  far  end  of 
the  room. 

"Happen  yo're  not  aware,  M'Adam,"  he 
said  sternly,  "that,  an'  it  had  not  bin  for  me, 
David 'd  ha'  left  you  years  agone — and  'twould 
nob 'but  ha'  served  yo'  right,  I'm  thinkin'." 

The  little  man  was  beaten  on  his  own 
ground,  so  he  changed  front. 

"  Dinna  shout  so,  man — I  have  ears  to  hear. 
Forbye  ye  irritate  Wullie." 

The  Tailless  Tyke,  indeed,  had  advanced 
from  the  fireplace,  and  now  stood,  huge  and 
hideous,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  room. 
There  was  distant  thunder  in  his  throat,  a 
threat  upon  his  face,  a  challenge  in  every 
wrinkle.     And  the  Gray  Dog  stole  gladly  out 


/  or  THE  \\ 

(  UN(V£F,  uj      , 

\^       of         Rivals  ioi 

from  behind  his  master  to  take  tip  the  gage  of 
battle. 

Straightway  there  was  silence;  tongues 
ceased  to  wag,  tankards  to  clink.  Every  man 
and  every  dog  was  quietly  gathering  about 
those  two  central  figures.  Not  one  of  them 
all  but  had  his  score  to  wipe  off  against  the 
Tailless  Tyke ;  not  one  of  them  but  was  burn- 
ing to  join  in,  the  battle  once  begun.  And 
the  two  gladiators  stood  looking  past  one  an- 
other, muzzle  to  muzzle,  each  with  a  tiny  flash 
of  teeth  glinting  between  his  lips. 

But  the  fight  was  not  to  be ;  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  the  Master  intervened. 

"  Bob,  lad,  coom  in  I"  he  called,  and,  bend- 
ing, grasped  his  favorite  by  the  neck. 

M'Adam  laughed  softly. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  cried.  "The 
look  o'  you's  enough  for  that  gentleman." 

"  If  they  get  fightin'  it'll  no  be  Bob  here  I'll 
hit,  I  warn  yo',  M'Adam,"  said  the  Master 
grimly. 

"Gin  ye  sae  muckle  as  touched  Wullie  d'ye 
ken  what  I'd  do,  James  Moore?"  asked  the 
little  man  very  smoothly. 

"Yes — sweer,"  the  other  replied,  and  strode 
out  of  the  room  amid  a  roar  of  derisive  laugh- 
ter at  M'  Adam's  expense. 

Owd  Bob  had  now  attained  wellnigh  the 
perfection  of  his  art.  Parson  Leggy  declared 
roundly  that  his  like  had  not  been  seen  since 
the  days  of  Rex  son  of  Rally.     Among  the 


102  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Dalesmen  he  was  a  heroic  favorite,  his  prowess 
and  gentle  ways  winning  him  friends  on  every 
hand.  But  the  point  that  told  most  heavily 
for  him  was  that  in  all  things  he  was  the  very 
antithesis  of  Red  Wull. 

Barely  a  man  in  the  country-side  but  owed 
that  ferocious  savage  a  grudge ;  not  a  man  of 
them  all  who  dared  pay  it.  Once  Long  Kirby, 
full  of  beer  and  valor,  tried  to  settle  his  ac- 
count. Coming  on  M'  Adam  and  Red  Wull  as 
he  was  driving  into  Grammoch-town,  he  leant 
over  and  with  his  thong  dealt  the  dog  a  terrible 
sword-like  slash  that  raised  an  angry  ridge  of 
red  from  hip  to  shoulder;  and  was  twenty 
yards  down  the  road  before  the  little  man's 
shrill  curse  reached  his  ear,  drowned  in  a  hid- 
eous bellow. 

He  stood  up  and  lashed  the  colt,  who,  quick 
on  his  legs  for  a  young  un,  soon  settled  to 
his  gallop.  But,  glancing  over  his  shoulder, 
he  saw  a  hounding  form  behind,  catching  him 
as  though  he  were  walking.  His  face  turned 
sickly  white;  he  screamed;  he  flogged;  he 
looked  back.  Right  beneath  the  tail-board 
was  the  red  devil  in  the  dust;  while  racing  a 
furlong  behind  on  the  turnpike  road  was  the 
mad  figure  of  M'Adam. 

The  smith  struck  back  and  flogged  forward. 
It  was  of  no  avail.  With  a  tiger-like  bound 
the  murderous  brute  leapt  on  the  flying  trap. 
At  the  shock  of  that  great  body  the  colt  was 
thrown  violently  on  his  side ;  Kirby  was  tossed 


Rivals  103 

over  the  hedge ;  and  Red  Wull  pinned  beneath 
the  debris. 

M'Adam  had  time  to  rush  up  and  save  a 
tragedy. 

"  I've  a  mind  to  knife  ye,  Kirby,"  he  panted, 
as  he  bandaged  the  smith's  broken  head. 

After  that  you  may  be  sure  the  Dalesmen 
preferred  to  swallow  insults  rather  than  to  risk 
their  lives;  and  their  impotence  only  served 
to  fan  their  hatred  to  white  heat. 

The  working  methods  of  the  antagonists 
were  as  contrasted  as  their  appearances.  In  a 
word,  the  one  compelled  where  the  other 
coaxed. 

His  enemies  said  the  Tailless  Tyke  was 
rough ;  not  even  Tammas  denied  he  was  ready. 
His  brain  was  as  big  as  his  body,  and  he  used 
them  both  to  some  purpose.  "  As  quick  as  a 
cat,  with  the  heart  of  a  lion  and  the  temper 
of  Nick's  self,"  was  Parson  Leggy 's  descrip- 
tion. 

What  determination  could  effect,  that  could 
Red  Wull;  but  achievement  by  inaction  — 
supremest  of  all  strategies — was  not  for  him. 
In  matters  of  the  subtlest  handling,  where 
to  act  anything  except  indifference  was  to 
lose,  with  sheep  restless,  fearful  forebodings 
hymned  to  them  by  the  wind,  panic  hovering 
unseen  above  them,  when  an  ill-considered 
movement  spelt  catastrophe — then  was  Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir  incomparable. 

Men  still  tell  how,  when  the  squire's  new 


104  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

thrashing-machine  ran  amuck  in  Grammoch- 
town,  and  for  some  minutes  the  market  square 
was  a  turbulent  sea  of  blaspheming  men,  yelp- 
ing dogs,  and  stampeding  sheep,  only  one 
flock  stood  calm  as  a  mill-pond  by  the  bull- 
ring, watching  the  riot  with  almost  indiffer- 
ence. And  in  front,  sitting  between  them 
and  the  storm,  was  a  quiet  gray  dog,  his 
mouth  stretched  in  a  capacious  yawn :  to  yawn 
was  to  win,  and  he  won. 

When  the  worst  of  the  uproar  was  over, 
many  a  glance  of  triumph  was  shot  first  at  that 
one  still  pack,  and  then  at  M'Adam,  as  he 
waded  through  the  disorder  of  huddling  sheep. 

"And  wheer's  your  Wullie  noo?"  asked 
Tupper  scornfully. 

"Weel,"  the  little  man  answered  with  a 
quiet  smile,  "at  this  minute  he's  killin'  your 
Rasper  doon  by  the  pump."  Which  was  in- 
deed the  case ;  for  big  blue  Rasper  had  inter- 
fered with  the  great  dog  in  the  performance 
of  his  duty,  and  suffered  accordingly. 

Spring  passed  into  summer ;  and  the  excite- 
ment as  to  the  event  of  the  approaching  Trials, 
when  at  length  the  rivals  would  be  pitted 
against  one  another,  reached  such  a  height 
as  old  Jonas  Maddox,  the  octogenarian,  could 
hardly  recall. 

Down  in  the  Sylvester  Arms  there  was  al- 
most nightly  a  conflict  between  M'Adam  and 
Tammas  Thornton,  spokesman  of  the  Dales- 


Rivals  105 

men.  Many  a  long-drawn  bout  of  words  had 
the  two  anent  the  respective  merits  and  Cup 
chances  of  red  and  gray.  In  these  duels  Tam- 
mas  was  usually  worsted.  His  temper  would 
get  the  better  of  his  discretion ;  and  the  cynical 
debater  would  be  lost  in  the  hot-tongued 
partisan. 

During  these  encounters  the  others  would, 
as  a  rule,  maintain  a  rigid  silence.  Only 
when  their  champion  was  being  beaten,  and 
it  was  time  for  strength  of  voice  to  vanquish 
strength  of  argument,  they  joined  in  right 
lustily  and  roared  the  little  man  down,  for  all 
the  world  like  the  gentlemen  who  rule  the 
Empire  at  Westminster. 

Tammas  was  an  easy  subject  for  M'  Adam  to 
draw,  but  David  was  an  easier.  Insults  di- 
rected at  himself  the  boy  bore  with  a  stolidity 
born  of  long  use.  But  a  poisonous  dart  shot 
against  his  friends  at  Kenmuir  never  failed  to 
achieve  its  object.  And  the  little  man  evinced 
an  amazing  talent  for  the  concoction  of  deft 
lies  respecting  James.  Moore. 

"I'm  hearin',"  said  he,  one  evening,  sitting 
in  the  kitchen,  sucking  his  twig;  "I'm  hearin' 
James  Moore  is  gaein'  to  git  married  agin." 

"Yo're  hearin'  lies  —  or  mair-like  tellin' 
'em, "  David  answered  shortly.  For  he  treated 
his  father  now  with  contemptuous  indiffer- 
ence. 

"Seven  months  sin'  his  wife  died,"  the  lit- 
tle man  continued  meditatively.     "Weel,  I'm 


106       .      Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

on'y  'stonished  he's  Waited  sae  lang.  Ain 
buried,  anither  come  on — that's  James  Moore." 

David  burst  angrily  out  of  the  room. 

"Gaein'  to  ask  him  if  it's  true?"  called  his 
father  after  him.  "Gude  luck  to  ye — and 
him." 

David  had  now  a  new  interest  at  Kenmuir. 
In  Maggie  he  found  an  endless  source  of  study. 
On  the  death  of  her  mother  the  girl  had  taken 
up  the  reins  of  government  at  Kenmuir ;  and 
gallantly  she  played  her  part,  whether  in  ten- 
derly mothering  the  baby,  wee  Anne,  or  in 
the  sterner  matters  of  household  work.  She 
did  her  duty,  young  though  she  was,  with  a 
surprising,  old-fashioned  womanliness  that  won 
many  a  smile  of  approval  from  her  father,  and 
caused  David's  eyes  to  open  with  astonish- 
ment. 

And  he  soon  discovered  that  Maggie,  mis- 
tress of  Kenmuir,  was  another  person  from 
his  erstwhile  playfellow  and  servant. 

The  happy  days  when  might  ruled  right 
were  gone,  never  to  be  recalled.  David  often 
regretted  them,  especially  when  in  a  conflict 
of  tongues,  Maggie,  with  her  quick  answers 
and  teasing  eyes,  was  driving  him  sulky  and 
vanquished  from  the  field.  The  two  were 
perpetually  squabbling  now.  In  the  good  old 
days,  he  remembered  bitterly,  squabbles  be- 
tween them  were  unknown.  He  had  never 
permitted  them;  any  attempt  at  independent 
thought  or  action  was  as  sternly  quelled  as  in 


Rivals  1 07 

the  Middle  Ages.  She  must  follow  where  he 
led  on— "Ma  word!" 

Now  she  was  mistress  where  he  had  been 
master ;  hers  was  to  command,  his  to  obey.  In 
consequence  they  were  perpetually  at  war. 
And  yet  he  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  kitchen 
and  watch  her,  as  she  went  about  her  business, 
with  solemn,  interested  eyes,  half  of  admira- 
tion, half  of  amusement.  In  the  end  Maggie 
always  turned  on  him  with  a  little  laugh 
touched  with  irritation. 

"  Han't  yo'  got  nothin'  better'n  that  to  do, 
nor  lookin'  at  me?"  she  asked  one  Saturday 
about  a  month  before  Cup  Day. 

"No,  I  han't,"  the  pert  fellow  rejoined. 

"Then  I  wish  yo'  had.  It  mak's  me  fair 
jumpety  yo'  watchin'  me  so  like  ony  cat  a 
mouse." 

"  Niver  yo'  fash  yo'sel'  account  o'  me,  ma 
wench,"  he  answered  calmly. 

"  Yo'  wench,  indeed!"  she  cried,  tossing  her 
head. 

"Ay,  or  will  be,"  he  muttered. 

"What's  that?"  she  cried,  springing  round, 
a  flush  of  color  on  her  face. 

"  Nowt,  my  dear.  Yo'll  know  so  soon  as  I 
want  yo'  to,  yo'  may  be  sure,  and  no  sooner." 

The  girl  resumed  her  baking,  half  angry, 
half  suspicious. 

"I  dunno'  what  yo'  mean,  Mr.  M'Adam," 
she  said. 

"  Don't  yo',  Mrs.  M'A " 


108  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

i 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  crash  of  a  falling 
plate;  whereat  David  laughed  quietly,  and 
asked  if  he  should  help  pick  up  the  bits. 

On  the  same  evening  at  the  Sylvester  Arms 
an  announcement  was  made  that  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  its  hearers. 

In  the  debate  that  night  on  the  fast-ap- 
proaching Dale  Trials  and  the  relative  abili- 
ties of  red  and  gray,  M'Adam  on  the  one  side, 
and  Tammas,  backed  by  Long  Kirby  and  the 
rest,  on  the  other,  had  cudgelled  each  other 
with  more  than  usual  vigor.  The  controversy 
rose  to  fever-heat ;  abuse  succeeded  argument ; 
and  the  little  man  again  and  again  was  hooted 
into  silence. 

"  It's  easy  lafhn',"  be  cried  at  last,  "  but  ye'll 
laff  t'ither  side  o'  yer  ugly  faces  on  Cup  Day." 

"Will  us,  indeed?  Us'll  see,"  came  the 
derisive  chorus. 

"We'll  whip  ye  till  ye're  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind,  Wullie  and  I." 

"Yo'llnot!" 

"We  will!" 

The  voices  were  rising  like  the  east  wind 
in  March. 

"  Yo'll  not,  and  for  a  very  good  reason  too," 
asseverated  Tammas  loudly. 

"  Gie  us  yer  reason,  ye  muckle  liar,"  cried 
the  little  man,  turning  on  him. 

"  Becos "  began  Jim  Mason,  and  stopped 

to  rub  his  nose. 


Rivals  I  og 

• 

"Yo'  'old  yo'  noise,  Jim,"  recommended 
Rob  Saunderson. 

"  Becos "  it  was  Tammas  this  time  who 

paused. 

"Git  on  wi'  it,  ye  stammerin'  stirk!"  cried 
M'Adam.     "Why?" 

u  Becos— Owd  Bob'll  not  rin." 

Tammas  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"What!"  screamed  the  little  man,  thrusting 
forward. 

"What's  that!"  yelled  Long  Kirby,  leaping 
to  his  feet. 

"Mon,  say  it  agin!"  shouted  Rob. 

"What's  owd  addled  egg  tellin'?"  cried  Liz 
Burton. 

"Dang  his  'ead  for  him!"  shouts  Tupper. 

"Fill  his  eye!"  says  Ned  Hoppin. 

They  jostled  round  the  old  man's  chair: 
M'Adam  in  front;  Jem  Burton  and  Long 
Kirby  leaning  over  his  shoulder;  Liz  behind 
her  father;  Saunderson  and  Tupper  tackling 
him  on  either  side ;  while  the  rest  peered  and 
elbowed  in  the  rear. 

The  announcement  had  fallen  like  a  thun- 
derbolt among  them. 

Tammas  looked  slowly  up  at  the  little  mob 
of  eager  faces  above  him.  Pride  at  the  sensa- 
tion caused  by  his  news  struggled  in  his  coun- 
tenance with  genuine  sorrow  for  the  matter 
of  it. 

"  Ay,  yo'  may  well  'earken,  all  on  yo'.  'Tis 
enough  to   mak'   the   deadies  listen.     I  says 


no  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

agin :  We's'll  no  rin  oor  Bob  for  t'  Cup.  And 
yo'  may  guess  why.  Bain't  every  mon,  Mr. 
M'Adam,  as'd  pit  aside  his  chanst  o'  the  Cup, 
and  that  'maist  a  gift  for  him" — M' Adam's 
tongue  was  in  his  cheek — "  and  it  a  certainty," 
the  old  man  continued  warmly,  "oot  o'  respect 
for  his  wife's  memory." 

The  news  was  received  in  utter  silence. 
The  shock  of  the  surprise,  coupled  with  the 
bitterness  of  the  disappointment,  froze  the 
slow  tongues  of  his  listeners: 

Only  one  small  voice  broke  the  stillness. 

"Oh,  the  feelin'  man!  He  should  git  a  re- 
duction o'  rent  for  sic  a  display  o'  proper 
speerit.  I'll  mind  Mr.  Hornbut  to  let  auld 
Sylvester  ken  o't." 

Which  he  did,  and  would  have  got  a  thrash- 
ing for  his  pains  had  not  Cyril  Gilbraith 
thrown  him  out  of  the  parsonage  before  the 
angry  cleric  could  lay  hands  upon  him. 


CHAPTER   X 

RED    WULL   WINS 

Tammas  had  but  told  the  melancholy  truth. 
Owd  Bob  was  not  to  run  for  the  cup.  And 
this  self-denying  ordinance  speaks  more  for 
James  Moore's  love  of  his  lost  wife  than  many 
a  lordly  cenotaph. 

To  the  people  of  the  Daleland,  from  the 
Black  Water  to  the  market-cross  in  Grammoch- 
town,  the  news  came  with  the  shock  of  a  sud- 
den blow.  They  had  set  their  hearts  on  the 
Gray  Dog's  success;  and  had  felt  serenely 
confident  of  his  victory.  But  the  sting  of 
the  matter  lay  in  this :  that  now  the  Tailless 
Tyke  might  well  win. 

M'Adam,  on  the  other  hand,  was  plunged 
into  a  fervor  of  delight  at  the  news.  For  to 
win  the  Shepherds'  Trophy  was  the  goal  of  his 
ambition.  David  was  now  less  than  nothing 
to  the  lonely  little  man,  Red  Wull  everything 
to  him.  And  to  have  that  name  handed  down 
to  posterity,  gallantly  holding  its  place  among 
those  of  the  most  famous  sheep-dogs  of  all 
time,  was  his  heart's  desire. 

As  Cup  Day  drew  near,  the  little  man,  his 
fine-drawn  temperament  strung  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  nervousness,  was  tossed  on  a  sea  of 


H2  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

apprehension.  His  hopes  and  fears  ebbed  and 
flowed  on  the  tide  of  the  moment.  His  moods 
were  as  uncertain  as  the  winds  in  March ;  and 
there  was  no  dependence  on  his  humor  for  a 
unit  of  time.  At  one  minute  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  kitchen,  his  face  already  flushed  with 
the  glow  of  victory,  chanting : 

"Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled !" 

At  the  next  he  was  down  at  the  table,  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  his  whole  figure 
shaking,  as  he  cried  in  choking  voice :  "  Eh, 
Wullie,  Wullie,  they're  all  agin  us." 

David  found  that  life  with  his  father  now 
was  life  with  an  unamiable  hornet.  Careless 
as  he  affected  to  be  of  his  father's  vagaries,  he 
was  tried  almost  to  madness,  and  fled  away  at 
every  moment  to  Kenmuir;  for,  as  he  told 
Maggie,  "I'd  sooner  put  up  wi'  your  h'airs 
and  h'imperences,  miss,  than  wi'  him,  the 
wenom  that  he  be !" 

At  length  the  great  day  came.  Fears, 
hopes,  doubts,  dismays,  all  dispersed  in  the 
presence  of  the  reality. 

Cup  Day  is  always  a  general  holiday  in  the 
Daleland,  and  every  soul  crowds  over  to  Silver- 
dale.  Shops  were  shut;  special  trains  ran  in 
to  Grammoch-town ;  and  the  road  from  the 
little  town  was  dazed  with  char-a-bancs,  brakes, 
wagonettes,  carriages,  carts,  foot-passengers, 
wending   toward   the    Dalesman's   Daughter. 


Red  Wull  Wins  113 

And  soon  the  paddock  below  that  little  inn 
was  humming  with  the  crowd  of  sportsmen 
and  spectators  come  to  see  the  battle  for  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy. 

There,  very  noticeable  with  its  red  body  and 
yellow  wheels,  was  the  great  Kenmuir  wagon. 
Many  an  eye  was  directed  on  the  handsome 
young  pair  who  stood  in  it,  conspicuous  and 
unconscious,  above  the  crowd:  Maggie,  look- 
ing in  her  simple  print  frock  as  sweet  and 
fresh  as  any  mountain  flower;  while  Da- 
vid's fair  face  was  all  gloomy  and  his  brows 
knit. 

In  front  of  the  wagon  was  a  black  cluster  of 
Dalesmen,  discussing  M'  Adam's  chances.  In 
the  centre  was  Tammas  holding  forth.  Had 
you  passed  close  to  the  group  you  might  have 
heard:  "A  man,  d'yo'  say,  Mr.  Maddox?  A 
h'ape,  I  call  him";  or:  "A  dog?  more  like  an 
'og,  I  tell  yo'."  Round  the  old  orator  were 
Jonas,  'Enry,  and  oor  Job,  Jem  Burton,  Rob 
Saunderson,  Tupper,  Jim  Mason,  Hoppin,  and 
others;  while  on  the  outskirts  stood  Sam'l 
Todd  prophesying  rain  and  M'  Adam's  victory. 
Close  at  hand  Bessie  Bolstock,  who  was  reputed 
to  have  designs  on  David,  was  giggling  spite- 
fully at  the  pair  in  the  Kenmuir  wagon,  and 
singing : 

"  Let  a  lad  aloan,  lass, 
Let  a  lad  a-be." 

While  her  father,  Teddy,  dodged  in  and  out 
among  the  crowd  with  tray  and  glasses:  for 


H4  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Cup  Day  was  the  great  day  of  the  year  for 
him. 

Past  the  group  of  Dalesmen  and  on  all  sides 
was  a  mass  of  bobbing  heads — Scots,  North- 
erners, Yorkshiremen,  Taffies.  To  right  and 
left  a  long  array  of  carriages  and  carts,  rang- 
ing from  the  squire's  quiet  landau  and  Vis- 
count Birdsaye's  gorgeous  barouche  to  Liz 
Burton's  three-legged  moke-cart  with  little 
Mrs.  Burton,  the  twins,  young  Jake  (who 
should  have  walked),  and  Monkey  (ditto) 
packed  away  inside.  Beyond  the  Silver  Lea 
the  gaunt  Scaur  raised  its  craggy  peak,  and 
the  Pass,  trending  along  its  side,  shone  white 
in  the  sunshine. 

At  the  back  of  the  carriages  were  booths, 
cocoanut-shies,  Aunt  Sallies,  shows,  book- 
makers' stools,  and  all  the  panoply  of  such  a 
meeting.  Here  Master  Launcelot  Bilks  and 
Jacky  Sylvester  were  fighting ;  Cyril  Gilbraith 
was  offering  to  take  on  the  boxing  man ;  Long 
Kirby  was  snapping  up  the  odds  against  Red 
Wull ;  and  Liz  Burton  and  young  Ned  Hop- 
pin  were  being  photographed  together,  while 
Melia  Ross  in  the  background  was  pretending 
she  didn't  care. 

On  the  far  bank  of  the  stream  was  a  little 
bevy  of  men  and  dogs,  observed  of  all. 

The  Juvenile  Stakes  had  been  run  and  won ; 
Londesley's  Lassie  had  carried  off  the  Locals; 
and  the  fight  for  the  Shepherds'  Trophy  was 
about  to  begin. 


Red  Wull  Wins  115 

"  Yo're  not  lookin'  at  me  noo,"  whispered 
Maggie  to  the  silent  boy  by  her  side. 

"  Nay;  nor  niver  don't  wush  to  agin,"  David 
answered  roughly.  His  gaze  was  directed 
over  the  array  of  heads  in  front  to  where,  be- 
yond the  Silver  Lea,  a  group  of  shepherds  and 
their  dogs  was  clustered.  While  standing 
apart  from  the  rest,  in  characteristic  isolation, 
was  the  bent  figure  of  his  father,  and  beside 
him  the  Tailless  Tyke. 

"Doest'o  not  want  yo'  feyther  to  win?" 
asked  Maggie  softly,  following  his  gaze. 

"I'm  prayin'  he'll  be  beat,"  the  boy  an- 
swered moodily. 

"Eh,  Davie,  hoo  can  ye?"  cried  the  girl, 
shocked. 

"It's  easy  to  say,  'Eh,  David,'"  he  snapped. 
"  But  if  yo'  lived  along  o'  them  two" — he  nod- 
ded toward  the  stream — "  'appen  yo'd  under- 
stand a  bit.  .  .  .  'Eh,  David,'  indeed!  I 
never  did!" 

"I  know  it,  lad,"  she  said  tenderly;  and  he 
was  appeased. 

"He'd  give  his  right  hand  for  his  bless 'd 
Wullie  to  win;  I'd  give  me  right  arm  to  see 
him  beat.  .  .  .  And  oor  Bob  there  all  the 
while," — he  nodded  to  the  far  left  of  the  line, 
where  stood  James  Moore  and  Owd  Bob,  with 
Parson  Leggy  and  the  Squire. 

When  at  length  Red  Wull  came  out  to  run 
his  course,  he  worked  with  the  savage  dash 
that  always  characterized   him.     His  method 


n6  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

was  his  own;  but  the  work  was  admirably 
done. 

"  Keeps  right  on  the  back  of  his  sheep,"  said 
the  parson,  watching  intently.  "  Strange  thing 
they  don't  break!"  But  they  didn't.  There 
was  no  waiting,  no  coaxing ;  it  was  drive  and 
devilry  all  through.  He  brought  his  sheep 
along  at  a  terrific  rate,  never  missing  a  turn, 
never  faltering,  never  running  out.  And  the 
crowd  applauded,  for  the  crowd  loves  a  dash- 
ing display.  While  little  M'Adam,  hopping 
agilely  about,  his  face  ablaze  with  excitement, 
handled  dog  and  sheep  with  a  masterly  pre- 
cision that  compelled  the  admiration  even  of 
his  enemies. 

"M'Adam  wins!"  roared  a  bookmaker. 
"Twelve  to  one  agin  the  field!" 

"He  wins,  dang  him!"  said  David,  low. 

"Wull  wins!"  said  the  parson,  shutting  his 
lips. 

"And  deserves  too!"  said  James  Moore. 

"Wull  wins!"  softly  cried  the  crowd. 

"We  don't!"  said  Sam'l  gloomily. 

And  in  the  end  Red  Wull  did  win;  and 
there  were  none  save  Tammas,  the  bigot,  and 
Long  Kirby,  who  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  his 
wife's  money  and  a  little  of  his  own,  to  chal- 
lenge the  justice  of  the  verdict. 

The  win  had  but  a  chilling  reception.  At 
first  there  was  faint  cheering ;  but  it  sounded 
like  the  echo  of  an  echo,  and  soon  died  of  in- 
anition.    To  get  up  an  ovation,  there  must  be 


Red  Wull  Wins  117 

money  at  the  back,  or  a  few  roaring  fanatics 
to  lead  the  dance.  Here  there  was  neither; 
ugly  stories,  disparaging  remarks,  on  every 
hand.  And  the  hundreds  who  did  not  know 
took  their  tone,  as  always,  from  those  who 
said  they  did. 

M'Adam  could  but  remark  the  absence  of 
enthusiasm  as  he  pushed  up  through  the 
throng  toward  the  committee  tent.  No  single 
voice  hailed  him  victor;  no  friendly  hand 
smote  its  congratulations.  Broad  backs  were 
turned ;  contemptuous  glances  levelled ;  spite- 
ful remarks  shot.  Only  the  foreign  element 
looked  curiously  at  the  little  bent  figure  with 
the  glowing  face,  and  shrank  back  at  the  size 
and  savage  aspect  of  the  great  dog  at  his 
heels. 

But  what  cared  he?  His  Wullie  was  ac- 
knowledged champion,  the  best  sheep-dog  of 
the  year;  and  the  little  man  was  happy.  They 
could  turn  their  backs  on  him ;  but  they  could 
not  alter  that ;  and  he  could  afford  to  be  indif- 
ferent. "They  dinna  like  it,  lad — he!  he! 
But  they'll  e'en  ha'  to  thole  it.  Ye've  won  it, 
Wullie — won  it  fair." 

He  elbowed  through  the  press,  making  for 
the  rope-guarded  inclosure  in  front  of  the  com- 
mittee tent,  round  which  the  people  were  now 
packing.  In  the  door  of  the  tent  stood  the 
secretary,  various  stewards,  and  members  of 
the  committee.  In  front,  alone  in  the  roped- 
off  space,  was  Lady  Eleanour,  fragile,  dainty, 


n8  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

graceful,  waiting  with  a  smile  upon  her  face 
to  receive  the  winner.  And  on  a  table  be- 
side her,  naked  and  dignified,  the  Shepherds' 
Trophy. 

There  it  stood,  kingly  and  impressive;  its 
fair  white  sides  inscribed  with  many  names; 
cradled  in  three  shepherds'  crooks;  and  on 
the  top,  as  if  to  guard  the  Cup's  contents,  an 
exquisitely  carved  collie's  head.  The  Shep- 
herds' Trophy,  the  goal  of  his  life's  race,  and 
many  another  man's. 

He  climbed  over  the  rope,  followed  by  Red 
Wull,  and  took  off  his  hat  with  almost  courtly 
deference  to  the  fair  lady  before  him. 

As  he  walked  up  to  the  table  on  which  the 
Cup  stood,  a  shrill  voice,  easily  recognizable, 
broke  the  silence. 

"You'd  like  it  better  if  'twas  full  and  yo' 
could  swim  in  it,  you  and  yer  Wullie,"  it 
called.  Whereat  the  crowd  giggled,  and  Lady 
Eleanour  looked  indignant. 

The  little  man  turned. 

"I'll  mind  drink  yer  health,  Mr.  Thornton, 
never  fear,  though  I  ken  ye'd  prefaire  to  drink 
yer  ain,"  he  said.  At  which  the  crowd  giggled 
afresh ;  and  a  gray  head  at  the  back,  which  had 
hoped  itself  unrecognized,  disappeared  sud- 
denly. 

The  little  man  stood  there  in  the  stillness, 
sourly  smiling,  his  face  still  wet  from  his  ex- 
ertions; while  the  Tailless  Tyke  at  his  side 
fronted  defiantly  the  serried  ring  of  onlookers, 


Red  Wull  Wins  119 

a  white  fence  of  teeth  faintly  visible  between 
his  lips. 

Lady  Eleanour  looked  uneasy.  Usually  the 
lucky  winner  was  unable  to  hear  her  little 
speech,  as  she  gave  the  Cup  away,  so  deafen- 
ing was  the  applause.  Now  there  was  utter 
silence.  She  glanced  up  at  the  crowd,  but 
there  was  no  response  to  her  unspoken  appeal 
in  that  forest  of  hostile  faces.  And  her  gentle 
heart  bled  for  the.  forlorn  little  man  before 
her.  To  make  it  up  she  smiled  on  him  so 
sweetly  as  to  more  than  compensate  him. 

"I'm  sure  you  deserve  your  success,  Mr. 
M'Adam,"  she  said.  "You  and  Red  Wull 
there  worked  splendidly — everybody  says  so." 

"I've  heard  naethin'  o't,"  the  little  man  an- 
swered dryly.  At  which  some  one  in  the  crowd 
sniggered. 

"  And  we  all  know  what  a  grand  dog  he  is ; 
though" — with  a  reproving  smile  as  she 
glanced  at  Red  Wull's  square,  truncated  stern 
— "he's  not  very  polite." 

"His  heart  is  good,  your  Leddyship,  if  his 
manners  are  not,"  M'Adam  answered,  smiling. 

"Liar!"  came  a  loud  voice  in  the  silence. 
Lady  Eleanour  looked  up,  hot  with  indigna- 
tion, and  half  rose  from  her  seat.  But  M'  Adam 
merely  smiled. 

"Wullie,  turn  and  mak'  yer  bow  to  the 
leddy,"  he  said.  "They'll  no  hurt  us  noo 
we're  up;  it's  when  we're  doon  they'll  flock 
like  corbies  to  the  carrion." 


120  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

At  that  Red  Wull  walked  up  to  Lady 
Eleanour,  faintly  wagging  his  tail;  and  she 
put  her  hand  on  his  huge  bull  head  and  said, 
"  Dear  old  Ugly!"  at  which  the  crowd  cheered 
in  earnest. 

After  that,  for  some  moments,  the  only 
sound  was  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  good  lady's 
voice  and  the  little  man's  caustic  replies. 

"Why,  last  winter  the  country  was  full  of 
Red  Wull's  doings  and  yours.  It  was  always 
M'  Adam  and  his  Red  Wull  have  done  this  and 
that  and  the  other.  I  declare  I  got  quite  tired 
of  you  both,  I  heard  such  a  lot  about  you." 

The  little  man,  cap  in  hand,  smiled,  blushed, 
and  looked  genuinely  pleased. 

"And  when  it  wasn't  you  it  was  Mr.  Moose 
and  Owd  Bob." 

"Owd  Bob,  bless  him!"  called* a  stentorian 
voice.     "Three  cheers  for  oor  Bob!" 

"'Ip!  'ip!  'ooray!"  It  was  taken  up  gal- 
lantly, and  cast  from  mouth  to  mouth;  and 
strangers,  though  they  did  not  understand, 
caught  the  contagion  and  cheered  too;  and 
the  uproar  continued  for  some  minutes. 

When  it  was  ended  Lady  Eleanour  was 
standing  up,  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks  and 
her  eyes  flashing  dangerously,  like  a  queen  at 
bay. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  and  her  clear  voice  thrilled 
through  the  air  like  a  trumpet.  "Yes;  and 
now  three  cheers  for  Mr.  M'Adam  and  his 
Red  Wull !     Hip !  hip ! " 


Red  Wull  Wins  121 

"Hooray!"  A  little  knowt  of  stalwarts  at 
the  back — James  Moore,  Parson  Leggy,  Jim 
Mason,  and  you  may  be  sure  in  heart,  at  least, 
Owd  Bob — responded  to  the  call  right  lustily. 
The  crowd  joined  in;  and,  once  off,  cheered 
and  cheered  again. 

"Three  cheers  more  for  Mr.  M'Adam!" 

But  the  little  man  waved  to  them. 

"  Dinna  be  bigger  heepocrites  than  ye  can 
help,"  he  said.  "Ye've  done  enough  for  one 
day,  and  thank  ye  for  it." 

Then  Lady  Eleanour  handed  him  the  Cup. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,  I  present  you  with  the 
Champion  Challenge  Dale  Cup,  open  to  all 
comers.  Keep  it,  guard  it,  love  it  as  your 
own,  and  win  it  again  if  you  can.  Twice 
more  and  it's  yours,  you  know,  and  it  will  stop 
forever  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Pike.  And 
the  right  place  for  it,  say  I — the  Dale  Cup  for 
Dalesmen." 

The  little  man  took  the  Cup  tenderly. 

"  It  shall  no  leave  the  Estate  or  ma  hoose, 
yer  Leddyship,  gin  Wullie  and  I  can  help  it, " 
he  said  emphatically. 

Lady  Eleanour  retreated  into  the  tent,  and 
the  crowd  swarmed  over  the  ropes  and  round 
the  little  man,  who  held  the  Cup  beneath  his 
arm. 

Long  Kirby  laid  irreverent  hands  upon  it. 

"  Dinna  finger  it!"  ordered  M'Adam. 

"Shall!" 

"Shan't!     Wullie,  keep  him  aff."     Which 


122  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

the  great  dog  proceeded  to  do  amid  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  onlookers. 

Among  the  last,  James  Moore  was  borne  past 
the  little  man.  At  sight  of  him,  M' Adam's 
face  assumed  an  expression  of  intense  concern. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  cried,  peering  forward 
as  though  in  alarm ;  "  man,  Moore,  ye' re  green 
— positeevely  verdant.  Are  ye  in  pain?" 
Then,  catching  sight  of  Owd  Bob,  he  started 
back  in  affected  horror. 

"And,  ma  certes!  so's  yer  dog!  Yer  dog 
as  was  gray  is  green.  Oh,  guid  life!" — and 
he  made  as  though  about  to  fall  fainting  to 
the  ground. 

Then,  in  bantering  tones:  "Ah,  but  ye 
shouldna  covet " 

"  He'll  ha'  no  need  to  covet  it  long,  I  can 
tell  yo',"  interposed  Tammas's  shrill  accents. 

"And  why  for  no?" 

"Becos  next  year  he'll  win  it  fra  yo'.  Oor 
Bob'll  win  it,  little  mon.     Why?  thot's  why," 

The  retort  was  greeted  with  a  yell  of  ap- 
plause from  the  sprinkling  of  Dalesmen  in  the 
crowd. 

But  M'Adam  swaggered  away  into  the  tent, 
his  head  up,  the  Cup  beneath  his  arm,  and 
Red  Wull  guarding  his  rear. 

"  First  of  a'  ye'll  ha'  to  beat  Adam  M'Adam 
and  his  Red  Wull!"  he  cried  back  proudly. 


CHAPTER   XI 

OOR   BOB 

M*  Adam's  pride  in  the  great  Cup  that  now 
graced  his  kitchen  was  supreme.  It  stood 
alone  in  the  very  centre  of  the  mantelpiece, 
just  below  the  old  bell-mouthed  blunderbuss 
that  hung  upon  the  wall.  The  only  ornament 
in  the  bare  room,  it  shone  out  in  its  silvery 
chastity  like  the  moon  in  a  gloomy  sky. 

For  once  the  little  man  was  content.  Since 
his  mother's  death  David  had  never  known 
such  peace.  It  was  not  that  his  father  became 
actively  kind;  rather  that  he  forgot  to  be 
actively  unkind. 

"  Not  as  I  care  a  brazen  button  one  way  or 
t'ither,"  the  boy  informed  Maggie. 

"Then  yo'  should,"  that  proper  little  person 
replied. 

M'Adam  was,  indeed,  a  changed  being.  He 
forgot  to  curse  James  Moore;  he  forgot  to 
sneer  at  Owd  Bob ;  he  rarely  visited  the  Syl- 
vester Arms,  to  the  detriment  of  Jem  Burton's 
pocket  and  temper;  and  he  was  never  drunk. 

"Soaks  'isself  at  home,  instead,"  suggested 
Tammas,  the  prejudiced.  But  the  accusation 
was  untrue. 


124  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Too  drunk  to  git  so  far,"  said  Long  Kirby, 
kindly  man. 

"  I  reck'n  the  Cup  is  kind  o'  company  to 
him,"  said  Jim  Mason.  "Happen  it's  lone- 
someness  as  drives  him  here  so  much."  And 
happen  you  were  right,  charitable  Jim. 

"  Best  mak'  maist  on  it  while  he  has  it,  'cos 
he'll  not  have  it  for  long,"  Tammas  remarked 
amid  applause. 

Even  Parson  Leggy  allowed — rather  reluc- 
tantly, indeed,  for  he  was  but  human — that  the 
little  man  was  changed  wonderfully  for  the 
better. 

"But  I  am  afraid  it  may  not  last,"  he  said. 
"  We  shall  see  what  happens  when  Owd  Bob 
beats  him  for  the  Cup,  as  he  certainly  will. 
That'll  be  the  critical  moment." 

As  things  were,  the  little  man  spent  all  his 
spare  moments  with  the  Cup  between  his 
knees,  burnishing  it  and  crooning  to  Wullie : 

"  I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 
And  neist  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. " 

There,  Wullie!  look  at  her!  is  she  no  bon- 
nie?  She  shines  like  a  twinkle — twinkle  in 
the  sky."  And  he  would  hold  it  out  at  arm's 
length,  his  head  cocked  sideways  the  better  to 
scan  its  bright  beauties. 

The  little  man  was  very  jealous  for  his  treas- 
ure. David  might  not  touch  it;  might  not 
smoke  in  the  kitchen  lest  the  fumes  should 


Oor  Bob  125 

tarnish  its  glory;  while  if  he  approached  too 
closely  he  was  ordered  abruptly  away. 

"  As  if  I  wanted  to  touch  his  nasty  Cup !"  he 
complained  to  Maggie.  "I'd  sooner  ony 
day " 

"  Hands  aff,  Mr.  David,  immediate !"  she 
cried  indignantly.  "'Pertinence,  indeed!"  as 
she  tossed  her  head  clear  of  the  big  fingers 
that  were  fondling  her  pretty  hair. 

So  it  was  that  M'Adam,  on  coming  quietly 
into  the  kitchen  one  day,  was  consumed  with 
angry  resentment  to  find  David  actually  hand- 
ling the  object  of  his  reverence ;  and  the  man- 
ner of  his  doing  it  added  a  thousandfold  to  the 
offence. 

The  boy  was  lolling  indolently  against  the 
mantelpiece,  his  fair  head  shoved  right  into 
the  Cup,  his  breath  dimming  its  lustre,  and 
his  two  hands,  big  and  dirty,  slowly  revolving 
it  before  his  eyes. 

Bursting  with  indignation,  the  little  man 
crept  up  behind  the  boy.  David  was  reading 
through  the  long  list  of  winners. 

"Theer's  the  first  on  'em,"  he  muttered, 
shooting  out  his  tongue  to  indicate  the  local- 
ity: "' Andrew  Moore's  Rough,  178-/  And 
theer  agin — 'James  Moore's  Pinch,  179-/ 
And  agin — 'Beck,  182-.'  Ah,  and  theer's 'im 
Tammas  tells  on!  'Rex,  183-/  and  'Rex, 
183-.'  Ay,  but  he  was  a  rare  un  by  all  tell- 
in's!  If  he'd  nob'but  won  but  onst  agin! 
Ah,  and  theer's  none  like  the  Gray  Dogs — they 


126  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

all  sa)^  that,  and  I  say  so  masel' ;  none  like 
the  Gray  Dogs  o'  Kenmuir,  bless  'em !     And 

we'll  win  agin  too "  he  broke  off  short; 

his  eye  had  travelled  down  to  the  last  name  on 
the  list. 

"  'M'  Adam's  Wull ' !"  he  read  with  unspeak- 
able contempt,  and  put  his  great  thumb  across 
the  name  as  though  to  wipe  it  out.  "'M'- 
Adam's  Wull'!  Goo'  gracious  sakes!  P-h- 
g-h-r-r!" — and  he  made  a  motion  as  though  to 
spit  upon  the  ground. 

But  a  little  shoulder  was  into  his  side,  two 
small  fists  were  beating  at  his  chest,  and  a 
shrill  voice  was  yelling:  "Devil!  devil!  stan' 
awa' !" — and  he  was  tumbled  precipitately  away 
from  the  mantelpiece,  and  brought  up  abrupt- 
ly against  the  side-wall. 

The  precious  Cup  swayed  on  its  ebony  stand, 
the  boy's  hands,  rudely  withdrawn,  almost 
overthrowing  it.  But  the  little  man's  first  im- 
pulse, cursing  and  screaming  though  he  was, 
was  to  steady  it. 

"  *M'  Adam's  Wull ' !  I  wish  he  was  here  to 
teach  ye,  ye  snod-faced,  ox-limbed  profleegit!" 
he  cried,  standing  in  front  of  the  Cup,  his 
eyes  blazing. 

"Ay,  'M' Adam's  Wull'!  And  why  not 
*M' Adam's  Wull'?  Ha'  ye  ony  objection  to 
the  name?" 

"I  didn't  know  yo'  was  theer,"  said  David, 
a  thought  sheepishly. 

"Na;  or  ye'd  not  ha'  said  it." 


Oor  Bob  127 

"I'd  ha'  thought  it,  though,"  muttered  the 
boy. 

Luckily,  however,  his  father  did  not  hear. 
He  stretched  his  hands  up  tenderly  for  the 
Cup,  lifted  it  down,  and  began  reverently  to 
polish  the  dimmed  sides  with  his  handker- 
chief. 

"  Ye're  thinkin',  nae  doot,"  he  cried,  casting 
up  a  vicious  glance  at  David,  "that  Wullie's 
no  gude  enough  to  ha'  his  name  alangside  o' 
they  cursed  Gray  Dogs.  Are  ye  no?  Let's 
ha'  the  truth  for  aince — for  a  diversion." 

"Reck'n  he's  good  enough  if  there's  none 
better,"  David  replied  dispassionately. 

"And  wha  should  there  be  better?  Tell 
me  that,  ye  muckle  gowk." 

David  smiled. 

"Eh,  but  that'd  be  long  tellin',"  he  said. 

"And  what  wad  ye  mean  by  that?"  his 
father  cried. 

"Nay;  I  was  but  thinkin'  that  Mr.  Moore's 
Bob'll  look  gradely  writ  under  yon."  He 
pointed  to  the  vacant  space  below  Red  Wull's 
name. 

The  little  man  put  the  Cup  back  on  its  ped- 
estal with  hurried  hands.  The  handkerchief 
dropped  unconsidered  to  the  floor;  he  turned 
and  sprang  furiously  at  the  boy,  who  stood 
against  the  wall,  still  smiling;  and,  seizing 
him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  shook  him  to  and 
fro  with  fiery  energy. 

"So  ye're  hopin',   prayin',   nae   doot,  that 


128  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

James  Moore — curse  him ! — will  win  ma  Cup 
awa'  from  me,  )^er  ain  dad.  I  wonder  ye're 
no  'shamed  to  cross  ma  door!  Ye  live  on  me; 
ye  suck  ma  blood,  ye  foul-mouthed  leech. 
Wullie  and  me  brak'  oorsel's  to  keep  ye  in 
hoose  and  hame — and  what's  yer  gratitude? 
Ye  plot  to  rob  us  of  oor  rights." 

He  dropped  the  boy's  coat  and  stood  back. 

"No  rights  about  it,"  said  David,  still  keep- 
ing his  temper. 

"  If  I  win  is  it  no  ma  right  as  muckle  as  ony 
Englishman's?" 

Red  Wull,  who  had  heard  the  rising  voices, 
came  trotting  in,  scowled  at  David,  and  took 
his  stand  beside  his  master. 

"Ay,  if  yo'  win  it,"  said  David,  with  sig- 
nificant emphasis  on  the  conjunction. 

"  And  wha's  to  beat  us?" 

David  looked  at  his  father  in  well-affected 
surprise. 

"  I  tell  yo'  Owd  Bob's  rinnin',"  he  answered. 

"And  what  if  he  is?"  the  other  cried. 

"Why,  even  yo'  should  know  so  much,"  the 
boy  sneered. 

The  little  man  could  not  fail  to  understand. 

"So  that's  it!"  he  said.  Then,  in  a  scream, 
with  one  finger  pointing  to  the  great  dog : 

"And  what  o'  him?  What'll  ma  Wullie  be 
doin'  the  while?  Tell  me  that,  and  ha'  a 
care!  Mind  ye,  he  Stan's  here  hearkenin' !" 
And,  indeed,  the  Tailless  Tyke  was  bristling 
for  battle. 


Oor  Bob  129 

David  did  not  like  the  look  of  things;  and 
edged  away  toward  the  door. 

"What'll  Wullie  be  doin',  ye  chicken- 
hearted  brock?"  his  father  cried. 

"  'Im?"  said  the  boy,  now  close  on  the  door. 
"'Im?"  he  said,  with  a  slow  contempt  that 
made  the  red  bristles  quiver  on  the  dog's 
neck.  "  Lookin'  on,  I  should  think — lookin' 
on.  What  else  is  he  fit  for?  I  tell  yo'  oor 
Bob " 

"'Oor  Bob' !"  screamed  the  little  man,  dart- 
ing forward.  "'Oor  Bob'!  Hark  to  him! 
I'll  <oor '     At  him,  Wullie!  at  him!" 

But  the  Tailless  Tyke  needed  no  encourage- 
ment. With  a  harsh  roar  he  sprang  through 
the  air,  only  to  crash  against  the  closing  door. 

The  outer  door  banged,  and  in  another  sec- 
ond a  mocking  finger  tapped  on  the  window- 
pane. 

"Better  luck  to  the  two  on  yo'  next  time!" 
laughed  a  scornful  voice ;  and  David  ran  down 
the  hill  toward  Kenmuir. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW   RED   WULL  HELD   THE   BRIDGE 

From  that  hour  the  fire  of  M' Adam's  jeal- 
ousy blazed  into  a  mighty  flame.  The  win- 
ning  of  the  Dale  Cup  had  become  a  mania  with 
him.  He  had  won  it  once,  and  would  again 
despite  all  the  Moores,  all  the  Gray  Dogs,  all 
the  undutif ul  sons  in  existence :  on  that  point 
he  was  resolved.  The  fact  of  his  having 
tasted  the  joys  of  victory  served  to  whet  his 
desire.  And  now  he  felt  he  could  never  be 
happy  till  the  Cup  was  his  own — won  outright. 

At  home  David  might  barely  enter  the  room 
where  the  trophy  stood. 

"I'll  not  ha*  ye  touch  ma  Cup,  ye  dirty- 
fingered,  ill-begotten  wrastrel.  Wullie  and  me 
won  it — you'd  naught  to  do  wi'  it.  Go  you  to 
James  Moore  and  James  Moore's  dog." 

"Ay,  and  shall  I  tak'  Cup  wi'  me?  or  will 
ye  bide  till  it's  took  from  ye?" 

So  the  two  went  on ;  and  every  day  the  ten- 
sion approached  nearer  breaking-point. 

In  the  Dale  the  little  man  met  with  no  sym^ 
pathy.  The  hearts  of  the  Dalesmen  were  to  a 
man  with  Owd  Bob  and  his  master. 

Whereas  once  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  his 
shrill,  ill  tongue  had  been  rarely  still,  now  he 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      131 

maintained  a  sullen  silence;  Jem  Burton,  at 
least,  had  no  cause  of  complaint.  Crouched 
away  in  a  corner,  with  Red  Wull  beside  him, 
the  little  man  would  sit  watching  and  listening 
as  the  Dalesmen  talked  of  Owd  Bob's  doings, 
his  staunchness,  sagacity,  and  coming  victory. 

Sometimes  he  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer.  Then  he  would  spring  to  his  feet,  and 
stand,  a  little  swaying  figure,  and  denounce 
them  passionately  in  almost  pathetic  elo- 
quence. These  orations  always  concluded  in 
set  fashion. 

"Ye're  all  agin  us!"  the  little  man  would 
cry  in  quivering  voice. 

"We  are  that,"  Tammas  would  answer  com- 
placently. 

"  Fair  means  or  foul,  ye' re  content  sae  lang 
as  Wullie  and  me  are  beat.  I  wonder  ye 
dinna  poison  him — a  little  arsenic,  and  the 
way's  clear  for  your  Bob." 

"  The  way  is  clear  enough  wi'oot  that,"  from 
Tammas  caustically.  Then  a  lengthy  silence, 
only  broken  by  that  exceeding  bitter  cry: 
"Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie,  they're  all  agin  us!" 

And  always  the  rivals — red  and  gray — went 
about  seeking  their  opportunity.  But  the 
Master,  with  his  commanding  presence  and 
stern  eyes,  was  ever  ready  for  them.  Toward 
the  end,  M'Adam,  silent  and  sneering,  would 
secretly  urge  on  Red  Wull  to  the  attack ;  un- 
til, one  day  in  Grammoch-town,  James  Moore 


132  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

turned  on  him,  his  blue  eyes  glittering. 
"D'yo'  think,  yo'  little  fule,"  he  cried  in  that 
hard  voice  of  his,  "  that  onst  they  got  set  we 
should  iver  git  either  of  them  off  alive?"  It 
seemed  to  strike  the  little  man  as  a  novel 
idea ;  for,  from  that  moment,  he  was  ever  the 
first  in  his  feverish  endeavors  to  oppose  his 
small  form,  buffer-like,  between  the  would-be 
combatants. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Curse  as  M'Adam  might,  threaten  as  he 
might,  when  the  time  came  Owd  Bob  won. 

The  styles  of  the  rivals  were  well  contrasted : 
the  patience,  the  insinuating  eloquence,  com- 
bined with  the  splendid  dash,  of  the  one ;  and 
the  fierce,  driving  fury  of  the  other. 

The  issue  was  never  in  doubt.  It  may  have 
been  that  the  temper  of  the  Tailless  Tyke  gave 
in  the  time  of  trial ;  it  may  have  been  that  his 
sheep  were  wild,  as  M'Adam  declared;  cer- 
tainly not,  as  the  little  man  alleged  in  choking 
voice,  that  they  had  been  chosen  and  pur- 
posely set  aside  to  ruin  his  chance.  Certain 
it  is  that  his  tactics  scared  them  hopelessly; 
and  he  never  had  them  in  hand. 

As  for  Owd  Bob,  his  dropping,  his  driving, 
his  penning,  aroused  the  loud-tongued  admira- 
tion of  crowd  and  competitors  alike.  He  was 
patient  yet  persistent,  quiet  yet  firm,  and 
seemed  to  coax  his  charges  in  the  right  way 
in  that  inimitable  manner  of  his  own. 

When,  at  length,  the  verdict  was  given,  and 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      133 

it  was  known  that,  after  an  interval  of  half  a 
century,  the  Shepherds'  Trophy  was  won  again 
by  a  Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir,  there  was  such  a 
scene  as  has  been  rarely  witnessed  on  the  slope 
behind  the  Dalesman's  Daughter. 

Great  fists  were  slapped  on  mighty  backs; 
great  feet  were  stamped  on  the  sun-dried  banks 
of  the  Silver  Lea ;  stalwart  lungs  were  strained 
to  their  uttermost  capacity;  and  roars  of 
"Moore!"  "Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir!"  "The 
Gray  Dogs!"  thundered  up  the  hillside,  and 
were  flung,  thundering,  back. 

Even  James  Moore  was  visibly  moved  as  he 
worked  his  way  through  the  cheering  mob; 
and  Owd  Bob,  trotting  alongside  him  in  quiet 
dignity,  seemed  to  wave  his  silvery  brush  in 
acknowledgment. 

Master  Jacky  Sylvester  alternately  turned 
cart-wheels  and  felled  the  Hon.  Launcelot 
Bilks  to  the  ground.  Lady  Eleanour,  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure,  waved  her  para- 
sol, and  attempted  to  restrain  her  son's  exu- 
berance. Parson  Leggy  danced  an  unclerical 
jig,  and  shook  hands  with  the  squire  till  both 
those  fine  old  gentlemen  were  purple  in  the 
face.  Long  Kirby  selected  a  small  man  in  the 
crowd,  and  bashed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 
While  Tammas,  Rob  Saunderson,  Tupper, 
Hoppin,  Londesley,  and  the  rest  joined  hands 
and  went  raving  round  like  so  many  giddy 
girls. 

Of  them  all,  however,  none  was  so  uproari- 


134  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

ous  in  the  mad  heat  of  his  enthusiasm  as  David 
M'Adam.  He  stood  in  the  Kenmuir  wagon 
beside  Maggie,  a  conspicuous  figure  above  the 
crowd,  as  he  roared  in  hoarse  ecstasy : 

"Weel  done,  oor  Bob!  Weel  done,  Mr. 
Moore!  Yo've  knocked  him!  Knock  him 
agin !  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir !  Moore !  Moore 
o'  Kenmuir!  Hip!  Hip!"  until  the  noisy- 
young  giant  attracted  such  attention  in  his 
boisterous  delight  that  Maggie  had  to  lay  a 
hand  upon  his  arm  to  restrain  his  violence. 

Alone,  on  the  far  bank  of  the  stream,  stood 
the  vanquished  pair. 

The  little  man  was  trembling  slightly;  his 
face  was  still  hot  from  his  exertions ;  and  as 
he  listened  to  the  ovation  accorded  to  his  con- 
queror, there  was  a  piteous  set  grin  upon  his 
face.  In  front  stood  the  defeated  dog,  his  lips 
wrinkling  and  hackles  rising,  as  he,  too,  saw 
and  heard  and  understood. 

"It's  a  gran'  thing  to  ha'  a  dutiful  son, 
Wullie,"  the  little  man  whispered,  watching 
David's  waving  figure.  "  He's  happy — and 
so  are  they  a' — not  sae  much  that  James  Moore 
has  won,  as  that  you  and  I  are  beat." 

Then,  breaking  down  for  a  moment: 

"Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie!  they're  all  agin  us. 
It's  you  and  I  alane,  lad." 

Again,  seeing  the  squire  followed  by  Parson 
Leggy,  Viscount  Birdsaye,  and  others  of  the 
gentry,  forcing  their  way  through  the  press  to 
shake  hands  with  the  victor,  he  continued : 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      135 

"  It's  good  to  be  in  wi'  the  quality,  Wullie. 
Niver  mak'  a  friend  of  a  man  beneath  ye  in 
rank,  nor  an  enemy  of  a  man  aboon  ye :  that's 
a  soond  principle,  Wullie,  if  ye'd  get  on  in 
honest  England." 

He  stood  there,  alone  with  his  dog,  watching 
the  crowd  on  the  far  slope  as  it  surged  upward 
in  the  direction  of  the  committee  tent.  Only 
when  the  black  mass  had  packed  itself  in  solid 
phalanges  about  that  ring,  inside  which,  just 
a  year  ago,  he  had  stood  in  very  different  cir- 
cumstances, and  was  at  length  still,  a  wintry 
smile  played  for  a  moment  about  his  lips.  He 
laughed  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Bide  a  wee,  Wullie  —  he!  he!  Bide  a 
wee. 

'The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley."' 

As  he  spoke,  there  came  down  to  him,  above 
the  tumult,  a  faint  cry  of  mingled  surprise  and 
anger.  The  cheering  ceased  abruptly.  There 
was  silence ;  then  there  burst  on  the  stillness 
a  hurricane  of  indignation. 

The  crowd  surged  forward,  then  turned. 
Every  eye  was  directed  across  the  stream. 
A  hundred  damning  fingers  pointed  at  the 
solitary  figure  there.  There  were  hoarse  yells 
of:  "There  he  be!  Yon's  him!  What's  he 
done  wi'  it?     Thief!     Throttle  him!" 

The  mob  came  lumbering  down  the  slope 
like  one  man,  thundering  their  imprecations 
on  a  thousand  throats.     They  looked  danger- 


136  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

ous,  and  their  wrath  was  stimulated  by  the 
knot  of  angry  Dalesmen  who  led  the  van. 
There  was  more  than  one  white  face  among 
the  women  at  the  top  of  the  slope  as  they 
watched  the  crowd  blundering  blindly  down 
the  hill.  There  were  more  men  than  Parson 
Leggy,  the  squire,  James  Moore,  and  the  local 
constables  in  the  thick  of  it  all,  striving  fran- 
tically with  voice  and  gesture,  ay,  and  stick 
too,  to  stem  the  advance. 

It  was  useless ;  on  the  dark  wave  rolled,  irre- 
sistible. 

On  the  far  bank  stood  the  little  man,  motion- 
less, awaiting  them  with  a  grin  upon  his  face. 
And  a  little  farther  in  front  was  the  Tailless 
Tyke,  his  back  and  neck  like  a  new-shorn 
wheat-field,  as  he  rumbled  a  vast  challenge. 

"  Come  on,  gentlemen !"  the  little  man  cried. 
"Come  on!  I'll  bide  for  ye,  never  fear. 
Ye' re  a  thousand  to  one  and  a  dog.  It's  the 
odds  ye  like,  Englishmen  a'." 

And  the  mob,  with  murder  in  its  throat,  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  and  came  on. 

At  the  moment,  however,  from  the  slope 
above,  clear  above  the  tramp  of  the  multitude, 
a  great  voice  bellowed :  "  Way !  Way !  Way 
for  Mr.  Trotter !"  The  advancing  host  checked 
and  opened  out;  and  the  secretary  of  the 
meeting  bundled  through. 

He  was  a  small,  fat  man,  fussy  at  any  time, 
and  perpetually  perspiring.  Now  his  face  was 
crimson  with  rage  and  running;  he  gesticu- 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      1 37 

lated  wildly;  vague  words  bubbled  forth,  as 
bis  short  legs  twinkled  down  the  slope. 

The  crowd  paused  to  admire.  Some  one 
shouted  a  witticism,  and  the  crowd  laughed. 
For  the  moment  the  situation  was  saved. 

The  fat  secretary  hurried  on  down  the  slope, 
unheeding  of  any  insult  but  the  one.  He 
bounced  over  the  plank-bridge;  and  as  he 
came  closer,  M'Adam  saw  that  in  each  hand 
he  brandished  a  brick. 

"Hoots,  man!  dinna  throw!"  he  cried, 
making  a  feint  as  though  to  turn  in  sudden 
terror. 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  gasped  the 
secretary,  waving  his  arms. 

"Bricks,  'twad  seem,"  the  other  answered, 
staying  his  flight. 

The  secretary  puffed  up  like  a  pudding  in  a 
hurry. 

"Where's  the  Cup?  Champion,  Challenge, 
etc.,"  he  jerked  out.  "Mind,  sir,  you're  re- 
sponsible! wholly  responsible!  Dents,  dam- 
ages, delays!  What's  it  all  mean,  sir?  These 
— these  monstrous  creations" — he  brandished 
the  bricks,  and  M'Adam  started  back  — 
"wrapped,  as  I  live,  in  straw,  sir,  in  the  Cup 
case,  sir !  the  Cup  case !  No  Cup !  Infamous ! 
Disgraceful !  Insult  me — meeting — commit- 
tee— every  one!  What's  it  mean,  sir?"  He 
paused  to  pant,  his  body  filling  and  emptying 
like  a  bladder. 

M'Adam  approached  him  with  one  eye  on 


138  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

the  crowd,  which  was  heaving  forward  again, 
threatening  still,  but  sullen  and  silent. 

"I  pit  'em  there,"  he  whispered;  and  drew 
back  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  disclosure. 

The  secretary  gasped. 

"  You — you  not  only  do  this — amazing  thing 
— these  monstrosities" — he  hurled  the  bricks 
furiously  on  the  unoffending  ground — "but 
you  dare  to  tell  me  so!" 

The  little  man  smiled. 

"'Do  wrang  and  conceal  it,  do  right  and 
confess  it,'  that's  Englishmen's  motto,  and 
mine,  as  a  rule ;  but  this  time  I  had  ma  rea- 
sons." 

"  Reasons,  sir !  No  reasons  can  justify  such 
an  extraordinary  breach  of  all  the — the  decen- 
cies. Reasons?  the  reasons  of  a  maniac.  Not 
to  say  more,  sir.  Fradulent  detention — fraud- 
ulent, I  say,  sir!  What  were  your  precious 
reasons?" 

The  mob  with  Tammas  and  Long  Kirby  at 
their  head  had  now  wellnigh  reached  the 
plank-bridge.  They  still  looked  dangerous, 
and  there  were  isolated  cries  of : 

"Duck  him!" 

"Chuck  him  in!" 

"An'  the  dog!" 

"  Wi'  one  o'  they  bricks  about  their  necks!" 

"There  are  my  reasons!"  said  M'Adam, 
pointing  to  the  forest  of  menacing  faces.  "  Ye 
see  I'm  no  beloved  amang  yonder  gentlemen, 
and" — in  a  stage  whisper  in  the   other's  ear 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      139 

— "I    thocht   maybe    I'd   be    'tacked   on    the 
road." 

Tammas,  foremost  of  the  crowd,  had  now 
his  foot  upon  the  first  plank. 

"Ye  robber!  ye  thief!  Wait  till  we  set 
hands  on  ye,  you  and  yer  gorilla!"  he  called. 

M'  Adam  half  turned. 

"Wullie,"  he  said  quietly,  "keep  the 
bridge." 

At  the  order  the  Tailless  Tyke  shot  gladly 
forward,  and  the  leaders  on  the  bridge  as 
hastily  back.  The  dog  galloped  on  to  the  rat- 
tling plank,  took  his  post  fair  and  square  in 
the  centre  of  the  narrow  way,  and  stood  facing 
the  hostile  crew  like  Cerberus  guarding  the 
gates  of  hell :  his  bull-head  was  thrust  forward, 
hackles  up,  teeth  glinting,  and  a  distant  rum- 
bling in  his  throat,  as  though  daring  them  to 
come  on. 

"Yo'  first,  olelad!"  said  Tammas,  hopping 
agilely  behind  Long  Kirby. 

"Nay;  the  old  uns  lead!"  cried  the  big 
smith,  his  face  gray- white.  He  wrenched 
round,  pinned  the  old  man  by  the  arms,  and 
held  him  forcibly  before  him  as  a  covering 
shield.  There  ensued  an  unseemly  struggle 
betwixt  the  two  valiants,  Tammas  bellowing 
and  kicking  in  the  throes  of  mortal  fear. 

"  Jim  Mason'll  show  us,"  he  suggested  at  last. 

"  Nay,"  said  honest  Jim ;  "  I'm  fear'd."  He 
could  say  it  with  impunity;  for  the  pluck  of 
Postie  Jim  was  a  matter  long  past  dispute. 


140  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Then  Jem  Burton'd  go  first? 

Nay;  Jem  had  a  lovin'  wife  and  dear  little 
kids  at  'ome. 

Then  Big  Bell? 

Big  Bell'd  see  'isself  further  first. 

A  tall  figure  came  forcing  through  the 
crowd,  his  face  a  little  paler  than  its  wont,  and 
a  formidable  knob-kerry  in  his  hand. 

"I'm  goin' !"  said  David. 

"But  yo're  not,"  answered  burly  Sam'l, 
gripping  the  boy  from  behind  with  arms  like 
the  roots  of  an  oak.  "Your  time '11  coom  soon 
enough  by  the  look  on  yo'  wi'  niver  no  hurry." 
And  the  sense  of  the  Dalesmen  was  with  the 
big  man;  for,  as  old  Rob  Saunderson  said: 

"  I  reck'n  he'd  liefer  claw  on  to  your  throat, 
lad,  nor  ony  o'  oors." 

As  there  was  no  one  forthcoming  to  claim 
the  honor  of  the  lead,  Tammas  came  forward 
with  cunning  counsel. 

"Tell  yo'  what,  lads,  we'd  best  let  'em  as 
don't  know  nowt  at  all  aboot  him  go  first. 
And  onst  they're  on,  mind,  we  winna  let  'em 
off;  but  keep  a-shovin'  and  a-bovin  'on  'em 
forra'd.      Then  us'll  foller." 

By  this  time  there  was  a  little  naked  space 
of  green  round  the  bridge-head,  like  a  fairy 
circle,  into  which  the  uninitiated  might  not 
penetrate.  Round  this  the  mob  hedged :  the 
Dalesmen  in  front,  striving  knavishly  back 
and  bawling  to  those  behind  to  leggo  that 
shovin' ;    and  these  latter  urging  valorously 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      141 

forward,  yelling  jeers  and  contumely  at  the 
front  rank.  "  Come  on !  'O's  afraid?  Lerrus 
through  to  'em,  then,  ye  Royal  Stan'-backs!" 
— for  well  they  knew  the  impossibility  of  their 
demand. 

And  as  they  wedged  and  jostled  thus,  there 
stole  out  from  their  midst  as  gallant  a  cham- 
pion as  ever  trod  the  grass.  He  trotted  out 
into  the  ring,  the  observed  of  all,  and  paused 
to  gaze  at  the  gaunt  figure  on  the  bridge. 
The  sun  lit  the  sprinkling  of  snow  on  the  dome 
of  his  head ;  one  forepaw  was  off  the  ground ; 
and  he  stood  there,  royally  alert,  scanning  his 
antagonist. 

"Th'  Owd  Un!"  went  up  in  a  roar  fit  to 
split  the  air  as  the  hero  of  the  day  was  recog- 
nized. And  the  Dalesmen  gave  a  pace  forward 
spontaneously  as  the  gray  knight-errant  stole 
across  the  green. 

"Oor  Bob'll  fetch  him!"  they  roared,  their 
blood  leaping  to  fever  heat,  and  gripped  their 
sticks,  determined  in  stern  reality  to  follow 
now. 

The  gray  champion  trotted  up  on  to  the 
bridge,  and  paused  again,  the  long  hair  about 
his  neck  rising  like  a  ruff,  and  a  strange  glint 
in  his  eyes ;  and  the  holder  of  the  bridge  never 
moved.  Red  and  Gray  stood  thus,  face  to 
face :  the  one  gay  yet  resolute,  the  other  mo- 
tionless, his  great  head  slowly  sinking  between 
his  forelegs,  seemingly  petrified. 

There  was  no  shouting  now :  it  was  time  for 


142  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

deeds,  not  words.  Only,  above  the  stillness, 
came  a  sound  from  the  bridge  like  the  snore  of 
a  giant  in  his  sleep,  and,  blending  with  it,  a 
low,  deep,  purring  thunder  like  some  monster 
cat  well  pleased. 

"  Wullie,"  came  a  solitary  voice  from  the  far 
side,  "keep  the  bridge!" 

One  ear  went  back,  one  ear  was  still  for- 
ward ;  the  great  head  was  low  and  lower  be- 
tween his  forelegs  and  the  glowing  eyes 
rolled  upward  so  that  the  watchers  could  see 
the  murderous  white. 

Forward  the  gray  dog  stepped. 

Then,  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon,  a 
voice,  stern  and  hard,  came  ringing  down 
from  the  slope  above  over  the  heads  of  the 
many. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  back!" 

"He!  he!  I  thocht  that  was  comin\"  sneered 
the  small  voice  over  the  stream. 

The  gray  dog  heard,  and  checked. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  in,  I  say!" 

At  that  he  swung  round  and  marched  slowly 
back,  gallant  as  he  had  come,  dignified  still  in 
his  mortification. 

And  Red  Wull  threw  back  his  head  and  bel- 
lowed a  paean  of  victory — challenge,  triumph, 
scorn,  all  blended  in  that  bull-like,  blood- 
chilling  blare. 

•  •  •  •  • 

In  the  mean  time,  M*  Adam  and  the  secretary 
had  concluded   their   business.     It  had  been 


How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge      143 

settled  that  the  Cup  was  to  be  delivered  over 
to  James  Moore  not  later  than  the  following 
Saturday. 

"Saturday,  see!  at  the  latest!"  the  secretary 
cried  as  he  turned  and  trotted  off. 

"Mr.  Trotter,"  M'Adam  called  after  him, 
"  I'm  sorry,  but  ye  maun  bide  this  side  the  Lea 
till  I've  reached  the  foot  o'  the  Pass.  Gin 
they  gentlemen" — nodding  toward  the  crowd 

— "  should  set  hands  on  me,  why "  and  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly.  "  For- 
bye,  Wullie's  keepin'  the  bridge." 

With  that  the  little  man  strolled  off  leis- 
urely ;  now  dallying  to  pick  'a  flower,  now  to 
wave  a  mocking  hand  at  the  furious  mob,  and 
so  slowly  on  to  the  foot  of  the  Murk  Muir  Pass. 

There  he  turned  and  whistled  that  shrill, 
peculiar  note. 

"  Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  called. 

At  that,  with  one  last  threat  thrown  at  the 
thousand  souls  he  had  held  at  bay  for  thirty 
minutes,  the  Tailless  Tyke  swung  about  and 
galloped  after  his  lord. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE   FACE   IN   THE   FRAME 

All  Friday  M'  Adam  never  left  the  kitchen. 
He  sat  opposite  the  Cup,  in  a  coma,  as  it  were ; 
and  Red  Wull  lay  motionless  at  his  feet. 

Saturday  came,  and  still  the  two  never 
budged.  Toward  the  evening  the  little  man 
rose,  all  in  a  tremble,  and  took  the  Cup  down 
from  the  mantelpiece;  then  he  sat  down 
again  with  it  in  his  arms. 

"Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie,  is  it  a  dream?  Ha' 
they  took  her  fra  us?  Eh,  but  it's  you  and  I 
alane,  lad." 

He  hugged  it  to  him,  crying  silently,  and 
rocking  to  and  fro  like  a  mother  with  a  dying 
child.  And  Red  Wull  sat  up  on  his  haunches, 
and  weaved  from  side  to  side  in  sympathy. 

As  the  dark  was  falling,  David  looked  in. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  the  little 
man  swung  round  noiselessly,  the  Cup  nursed 
in  his  arms,  and  glared,  sullen  and  suspicious, 
at  the  boy;  yet  seemed  not  to  recognize  him. 
In  the  half-light  David  could  see  the  tears 
coursing  down  the  little  wizened  face. 

"  'Pon  ma  life,  he's  gaein'  daft!"  was  his 
comment  as  he  turned  away  to  Kenmuir.  And 
again  the  mourners  were  left  alone. 


The  Face  in  the  Frame         145 

"A  few  hours  noo,  Wullie,"  the  little  man 
wailed,  "and  she'll  be  gane.  We  won  her, 
Wullie,  you  and  I,  won  her  fair:  she's  lit  the 
hoose  for  us;  she's  softened  a'  for  us — and 
God  kens  we  needed  it ;  she  was  the  ae  thing 
we  had  to  look  to  and  love.  And  noo  they're 
takin'  her  awa',  and  'twill  be  night  agin. 
We've  cherished  her,  we've  garnished  her, 
we've  loved  her  like  oor  ain ;  and  noo  she  maun 
gang  to  strangers  who  know  her  not." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  great  dog  rose 
with  him.  His  voice  heightened  to  a  scream, 
and  he  swayed  with  the  Cup  in  his  arms  till 
it  seemed  he  must  fall. 

"Did  they  win  her  fair,  Wullie?  Na;  they 
plotted,  they  conspired,  they  worked  ilka  ain 
o'  them  agin  us,  and  they  beat  us.  Ay,  and 
noo  they're  robbin'  us — robbin'  us!  But  they 
shallna  ha'  her.  Oor's  or  naebody's,  Wullie! 
We'll  finish  her  sooner  nor  that." 

He  banged  the  Cup  down  on  the  table  and 
rushed  madly  out  of  the  room,  Red  Wull  at 
his  heels.  In  a  moment  he  came  running 
back,  brandishing  a  great  axe  about  his  head. 

"  Come  on,  Wullie !"  he  cried.  "  'Scots  wha 
hae'!  Noo's  the  day  and  noo's  the  hour! 
Come  on!" 

On  the  table  before  him,  serene  and  beauti- 
ful, stood  the  target  of  his  madness.  The 
little  man  ran  at  it,  swinging  his  murderous 
weapon  like  a  flail. 

"Oor*s   or    naebody's,  Wullie!      Come  on! 


146  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

'Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  '  1"  He  aimed  a 
mighty  buffet ;  and  the  Shepherds'  Trophy — 
the  Shepherds'  Trophy  which  had  won  through 
the  hardships  of  a  hundred  years — was  almost 
gone.  It  seemed  to  quiver  as  the  blow  fell. 
But  the  cruel  steel  missed,  and  the  axe-head 
sank  into  the  wood,  clean  and  deep,  like  a 
spade  in  snow. 

Red  Wull  had  leapt  on  to  the  table,  and  in 
his  cavernous  voice  was  grumbling  a  chorus  to 
his  master's  yells.  The  little  man  danced  up 
and  down,  tugging  and  straining  at  the  axe- 
handle. 

"You  and  I,  Wullie! 

'  Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow !'  * 

The  axe-head  was  as  immovable  as  the  Muir 
Pike. 

'"Let  us  do  or  die!'" 

The  shaft  snapped,  and  the  little  man  tot- 
tered back.  Red  Wull  jumped  down  from  the 
table,  and,  in  doing  so,  brushed  against  the 
Cup.  It  toppled  *  over  on  to  the  floor,  and 
rolled  tinkling  away  in  the  dust.  And  the 
little  man  fled  madly  out  of  the  house,  still 
screaming  his  war-song. 

When,  late  that  night,  M'Adam  returned 
home,  the  Cup  was  gone.     Down  on  his  hands 

*  N.B. — You  may  see  the  dent  in  the  Cup's  white  sides 
to  this  day. 


The  Face  in  the  Frame         147 

and  knees  he  traced  out  its  path,  plain  to  see, 
where  it  had  rolled  along  the  dusty  floor.  Be- 
yond that  there  was  no  sign. 

At  first  he  was  too  much  overcome  to  speak. 
Then  he  raved  round  the  room  like  a  derelict 
ship,  Red  Wull  following  uneasily  behind. 
He  cursed ;  he  blasphemed ;  he  screamed  and 
beat  the  walls  with  feverish  hands.  A  stranger, 
passing,  might  well  have  thought  this  was  a 
private  Bedlam.  At  last,  exhausted,  he  sat 
down  and  cried. 

"  It's  David,  Wullie,  ye  may  depend ;  David 
that's  robbed  his  father's  hoose.  Oh,  it's  a 
grand  thing  to  ha'  a  dutiful  son!" — and  he 
bowed  his  gray  head  in  his  hands. 

David,  indeed,  it  was.  He  had  come  back 
to  the  Grange  during  his  father's  absence, 
and,  taking  the  Cup  from  its  grimy  bed,  had 
marched  it  away  to  its  rightful  home.  For 
that  evening  at  Kenmuir,  James  Moore  had 
said  to  him : 

"  David,  your  father's  not  sent  the  Cup.  I 
shall  come  and  fetch  it  to-morrow."  And 
David  knew  he  meant  it.  Therefore,  in  order 
to  save  a  collision  between  his  father  and  his 
friend — a  collision  the  issue  of  which  he  dared 
hardly  contemplate,  knowing,  as  he  did,  the 
unalterable  determination  of  the  one  and  the 
lunatic  passion  of  the  other — the  boy  had  re- 
solved to  fetch  the  Cup  himself,  then  and  there, 
in  the  teeth,  if  needs  be,  of  his  father  and  the 
Tailless  Tyke.     And  he  had  done  it. 


148  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

When  he  reached  home  that  night  he 
marched,  contrary  to  his  wont,  straight  into 
the  kitchen. 

There  sat  his  father  facing  the  door,  await- 
ing him,  his  hands  upon  his  knees.  For  once 
the  little  man  was  alone;  and  David,  brave 
though  he  was,  thanked  heaven  devoutly  that 
Red  Wull  was  elsewhere. 

For  a  while  father  and  son  kept  silence, 
watching  one  another  like  two  fencers. 

"  'Twas  you  as  took  ma  Cup?"  asked  the 
little  man  at  last,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair. 

"'Twas  me  as  took  Mr.  Moore's  Cup,"  the 
boy  replied.  "  I  thowt  yo'  mun  ha'  done  wi' 
it — I  found  it  all  bashed  upon  the  floor." 

"  You  took  it — pit  up  to  it,  nae  doot,  by 
James  Moore." 

David  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"  Ay,  by  James  Moore,"  his  father  continued. 
"  He  dursena  come  hissel'  for  his  ill-gotten 
spoils,  so  he  sent  the  son  to  rob  the  father. 
The  coward!" — his  whole  frame  shook  with 
passion.  "I'd  ha'  thocht  James  Moore'd  ha' 
bin  man  enough  to  come  himself  for  what  he 
wanted.  I  see  noo  I  did  him  a  wrang — I  mis- 
judged him.  I  kent  him  a  heepocrite;  ain  o* 
yer  unco  gudes;  a  man  as  looks  one  thing, 
says  anither,  and  does  a  third ;  and  noo  I  ken 
he's  a  coward.  He's  fear'd  o'  me,  sic  as  I  am, 
five  foot  twa  in  ma  stockin's."  He  rose  from 
his  chair  and  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height. 


The  Face  in  the  Frame         149 

"Mr.  Moore  had  nowt  to  do  wi'  it,"  David 
persisted. 

"  Ye're  lyin'.     James  Moore  pit  ye  to  it." 

"Itellyo'  he  did  not." 

"  Ye'd  ha'  bin  willin'  enough  wi'oot  him,  if 
ye'd  thocht  o't,  I  grant  ye.  But  ye've  no  the 
wits.  All  there  is  o'  ye  has  gane  to  mak'  yer 
muckle  body.  Hooiver,  that's  no  matter.  I'll 
settle  wi'  James  Moore  anither  time.  I'll  set- 
tle wi'  you  noo,  David  M'Adam." 

He  paused,  and  looked  the  boy  over  from 
head  to  foot. 

"So,  ye're  not  only  an  idler!  a  wastrel!  a 
liar!" — he  spat  the  words  out.  "Ye're — God 
help  ye — a  thief!" 

"I'm  no  thief!"  the  boy  returned  hotly. 
"  I  did  but  give  to  a  mon  what  ma  f eyther — 
shame  on  him! — wrongfully  kept  from  him." 

"  Wrangfully  ?"  cried  the  little  man,  advanc- 
ing with  burning  face. 

"  'Twas  honorably  done,  keepin'  what  wasna 
your'n  to  keep!  Holdin'  back  his  rights  from 
a  man !  Ay,  if  ony  one's  the  thief,  it's  not  me  : 
it's  you,  I  say,  you !" — and  he  looked  his  father 
in  the  face  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I'm  the  thief,  am  I?"  cried  the  other,  in- 
coherent with  passion.  "Though  ye're  three 
times  ma  size,  I'll  teach  ma  son  to  speak  so 
to  me." 

The  old  strap,  now  long  disused,  hung  in 
the  chimney  corner.  As  he  spoke  the  little 
man  sprang  back,  ripped  it  from  the  wall,  and, 


150  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

almost  before  David  realized  what  he  was  at, 
had  brought  it  down  with  a  savage  slash  across 
his  son's  shoulders;  and  as  he  smote  he 
whistled  a  shrill,  imperative  note : 
"Wullie,  Wullie,  tome!" 
David  felt  the  blow  through  his  coat  like  a 
bar  of  hot  iron  laid  across  his  back.  His  pas- 
sion seethed  within  him ;  every  vein  throbbed ; 
every  nerve  quivered.  In  a  minute  he  would 
wipe  out,  once  and  for  all,  the  score  of  years ; 
for  the  moment,  however,  there  was  urgent 
business  on  hand.  For  outside  he  could  hear 
the  quick  patter  of  feet  hard-galloping,  and 
the  scurry  of  a  huge  creature  racing  madly 
to  a  call. 

With  a  bound  he  sprang  at  the  open  door ; 
and  again  the  strap  came  lashing  down,  and  a 
wild  voice : 

"  Quick,  Wullie !  For  God's  sake,  quick !" 
David  slammed  the  door  to.  It  shut  with  a 
rasping  snap ;  and  at  the  same  moment  a  great 
body  from  without  thundered  against  it  with 
terrific  violence,  and  a  deep  voice  roared  like 
the  sea  when  thwarted  of  its  prey. 

"Too   late,    agin!"   said   David,    breathing 
hard;  and  shot  the  bolt  home  with  a  clang. 
Then  he  turned  on  his  father. 
"  Noo,"  said  he,  "  man  to  man !" 
"  Ay,"  cried  the  other,  "  father  to  son !" 
The  little  man  half  turned  and  leapt  at  the 
old    musketoon   hanging    on   the   wall.       He 
missed  it,  turned  again,  and  struck  with  the 


The  Face  in  the  Frame         151 

strap  full  at  the  other's  face.  David  caught 
the  falling  arm  at  the  wrist,  hitting  it  aside 
with  such  tremendous  force  that  the  bone  all 
but  snapped.  Then  he  smote  his  father  a  ter- 
rible blow  on  the  chest,  and  the  little  man  stag- 
gered back,  gasping,  into  the  corner;  while  the 
strap  dropped  from  his  numbed  fingers. 

Outside  Red  Wull  whined  and  scratched; 
but  the  two  men  paid  no  heed. 

David  strode  forward ;  there  was  murder  in 
his  face.  The  little  man  saw  it:  his  time  was 
come;  but  his  bitterest  foe  never  impugned 
Adam  M'  Adam's  courage. 

He  stood  huddled  in  the  corner,  all  dis- 
hevelled, nursing  one  arm  with  the  other,  en- 
tirely unafraid. 

"Mind,  David,"  he  said,  quite  calm,  "mur- 
der 'twill  be,  not  manslaughter." 

"Murder  'twill  be,"  the  boy  answered,  in 
thick,  low  voice,  and  was  across  the  room. 

Outside  Red  Wull  banged  and  clawed  high 
up  on  the  door  with  impotent  pats. 

The  little  man  suddenly  slipped  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  pulled  out  something,  and  flung  it. 
The  missile  pattered  on  his  son's  face  like  a 
rain-drop  on  a  charging  bull,  and  David  smiled 
as  he  came  on.  It  dropped  softly  on  the  table 
at  his  side ;  he  looked  down  and — it  was  the 
face  of  his  mother  which  gazed  up  at  him ! 

"Mither!"  he  sobbed,  stopping  short. 
"Mither!     Ma  God,  ye  saved  him — and  me!" 


152  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

He  stood  there,  utterly  unhinged,  shaking 
and  whimpering. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  pulled  him- 
self together ;  then  he  walked  to  the  wall,  took 
down  a  pair  of  shears,  and  seated  himself  at 
the  table,  still  trembling.  Near  him  lay  the 
miniature,  all  torn  and  crumpled,  and  beside 
it  the  deep-buried  axe-head. 

He  picked  up  the  strap  and  began  cutting  it 
into  little  pieces. 

"There!  and  there!  and  there!"  he  said 
with  each  snip.  "An*  ye  hit  me  agin  there 
may  be  no  mither  to  save  ye." 

M'  Adam  stood  huddling  in  the  corner.  He 
shook  like  an  aspen  leaf;  his  eyes  blazed  in 
his  white  face;  and  he  still  nursed  one  arm 
with  the  other. 

"  Honor  yer  father,"  he  quoted  in  small,  low 
voice. 


PART  IV 


THE   BLACK   KILLER 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A   MAD    MAN 

Tammas  is  on  his  feet  in  the  tap-room  of 
the  Arms,  brandishing  a  pewter  mug. 

"  Gen'lemen !"  he  cries,  his  old  face  flushed ; 
"  I  gie  you  a  toast.     Stan'  oop!" 

The  knot  of  Dalesmen  round  the  fire  rise 
like  one.  The  old  man  waves  his  mug  before 
him,  reckless  of  the  good  ale  that  drips  on  to 
the  floor. 

"The  best  sheep-dog  i'  th'  North— Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir!"  he  cries.  In  an  instant 
there  is  uproar:  the  merry  applause  of  clink- 
ing pewters ;  the  stamping  of  feet ;  the  rattle 
of  sticks.  Rob  Saunderson  and  old  Jonas 
are  cheering  with  the  best ;  Tupper  and  Ned 
Hoppin  are  bellowing  in  one  another's  ears; 
Long  Kirby  and  Jem  Burton  are  thumping 
each  other  on  the  back;  even  Sam'l  Todd  and 
Sexton  Ross  are  roused  from  their  habitual 
melancholy. 

"Here's  to  Th'  Owd  Un!  Here's  to  oor 
Bob!"  yell  stentorian  voices ;  while  Rob  Saun- 
derson has  jumped  on  to  a  chair. 

"Wi'  the  best  sheep-dog  i'  th'  North  I  gie 
yo'  the  Shepherds'  Trophy! — won  outreet  as 


156  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

will  be!"  he  cries.  Instantly  the  clamor  re- 
doubles. 

"The  Dale  Cup  and  Th'  Owd  Un!  The 
Trophy  and  oor  Bob!  'Ip,  'ip,  for  the  gray 
dogs!  'Ip,  'ip,  for  the  best  sheep-dog  as  ever 
was  or  will  be!     'Ooray,  'ooray!" 

It  is  some  minutes  before  the  noise  sub- 
sides ;  and  slowly  the  enthusiasts  resume  their 
seats  with  hoarse  throats  and  red  faces. 

"  Gentlemen  a' !" 

A  little  unconsidered  man  is  standing  up  at 
the  back  of  the  room.  His  face  is  aflame,  and 
his  hands  twitch  spasmodically ;  and,  in  front, 
with  hackles  up  and  eyes  gleaming,  is  a  huge, 
bull-like  dog. 

"Noo,"  cries  the  little  man,  "I  daur  ye  to 
repeat  that  lie !" 

"Lie!"  screams  Tammas;  "lie!  I'll  gie 
'im  lie!     Lemme  at  'im,  I  say!" 

The  old  man  in  his  fury  is  half  over  the  sur- 
rounding ring  of  chairs  before  Jim  Mason  on 
the  one  hand  and  Jonas  Maddox  on  the  other 
can  pull  him  back. 

"Coom,  Mr.  Thornton,"  soothes  the  octo- 
genarian, "let  un  be.  Yo'  surely  bain't 
angered  by  the  likes  o'  'im!" — and  he  jerks 
contemptuously  toward  the  solitary  figure  at 
his  back. 

Tammas  resumes  his  seat  unwillingly. 

The  little  man  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room 
remains  silent,  waiting  for  his  challenge  to  be 
taken  up.     It  is  in  vain.     And  as  he  looks  at 


A  Mad  Man  157 

the  range  of  broad,  impassive  backs  turned  on 
him,  he  smiles  bitterly. 

"They  dursen't,  Wullie,  not  a  man  of  them 
a'!"  he  cries.  "They're  one — two — three — 
four — eleven  to  one,  Wullie,  and  yet  they 
dursen't.  Eleven  of  them,  and  every  man  a 
coward!  Long  Kirby — Thornton — Tupper — 
Todd — Hoppin — Ross — Burton — and  the  rest, 
and  not  one  but's  a  bigger  man  nor  me,  and 

yet Weel,   we  might  ha'   kent  it.     We 

should  ha'  kent  Englishmen  by  noo.  They're 
aye  the  same  and  aye  have  bin.  They  tell 
lies,  black  lies " 

Tammas  is  again  half  out  his  chair,  and  only 
forcibly  restrained  by  the  men  on  either  hand. 

" and  then  they  ha'  na  the  courage  to 

stan'  by  'em.  Ye 're  English,  ivery  man  o' 
ye,  to  yer  marrow." 

The  little  man's  voice  rises  as  he  speaks. 
He  seizes  the  tankard  from  the  table  at  his  side. 

"Englishmen!"  he  cries,  waving  it  before 
him.  "  Here's  a  health !  The  best  sheep-dog 
as  iver  penned  a  flock — Adam  M'  Adam's  Red 
Wull!" 

He  pauses,  the  pewter  at  his  lips,  and  looks 
at  his  audience  with  flashing  eyes.  There  is 
no  response  from  them. 

"Wullie,  here's  to  you!"  he  cries.  "Luck 
and  life  to  ye,  ma  trusty  fier!  Death  and  de- 
feat to  yer  enemies ! 

'The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't.  "* 


158  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

He  raises  the  tankard  and  drains  it  to  its 
uttermost  dreg. 

Then  drawing  himself  up,  he  addresses  his 
audience  once  more : 

"An'  noo  I'll  warn  ye  aince  and  for  a',  and 
ye  may  tell  James  Moore  I  said  it :  He  may 
plot  agin  us,  Wullie  and  me ;  he  may  threaten 
us;  he  may  win  the  Cup  outright  for  his 
muckle  favorite ;  but  there  was  niver  a  man  or 
dog  yet  as  did  Adam  M'Adam  and  his  Red 
Wull  a  hurt  but  in  the  end  he  wush't  his 
mither  hadna  borne  him." 

A  little  later,  and  he  walks  out  of  the  inn, 
the  Tailless  Tyke  at  his  heels. 

After  he  is  gone  it  is  Rob  Saunderson  who 
says:  "The  little  mon's  mad;  he'll  stop  at 
nothin'  ";  and  Tammas  who  answers: 

"  Nay ;  not  even  murder." 

The  little  man  had  aged  much  of  late.  His 
hair  was  quite  white,  his  eyes  unnaturally 
bright,  and  his  hands  were  never  still,  as 
though  he  were  in  everlasting  pain.  He 
looked  the  picture  of  disease. 

After  Owd  Bob's  second  victory  he  had  be- 
come morose  and  untalkative.  At  home  he 
often  sat  silent  for  hours  together,  drinking 
and  glaring  at  the  place  where  the  Cup  had 
been.  Sometimes  he  talked  in  low,  eerie  voice 
to  Red  Wull;  and  on  two  occasions,  David, 
turning  suddenly,  had  caught  his  father  glow- 
ering stealthily  at  him  with  such  an  expression 


A  Mad  Man  159 

on  his  face  as  chilled  the  boy's  blood.  The 
two  never  spoke  now;  and  David  held  this 
silent,  deadly  enmity  far  worse  than  the  old- 
time  perpetual  warfare. 

It  was  the  same  at  the  Sylvester  Arms.  The 
little  man  sat  alone  with  Red  Wull,  exchang- 
ing words  with  no  man,  drinking  steadily, 
brooding  over  his  wrongs,  only  now  and  again 
galvanized  into  sudden  action. 

Other  people  than  Tammas  Thornton  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  M'Adam  would  stop  at 
nothing  in  the  undoing  of  James  Moore  or  the 
gray  dog.  They  said  drink  and  disappoint- 
ment had  turned  his  head ;  that  he  was  mad 
and  dangerous.  And  on  New  Year's  day 
matters  seemed  coming  to  a  crisis ;  for  it  was 
reported  that  in  the  gloom  of  a  snowy  evening 
he  had  drawn  a  knife  on  the  Master  in  the 
High  Street,  but  slipped  before  he  could  ac- 
complish his  fell  purpose. 

Most  of  them  all,  David  was  haunted  with 
an  ever-present  anxiety  as  to  the  little  man's 
intentions.  The  boy  even  went  so  far  as  to 
warn  his  friend  against  his  father.  But  the 
Master  only  smiled  grimly. 

"Thank  ye,  lad,"  he  said.  "But  I  reck'n 
we  can  'fend  for  oorsel's,  Bob  and  I.  Eh, 
OwdUn?" 

Anxious  as  David  might  be,  he  was  not  so 
anxious  as  to  be  above  taking  a  mean  advan- 
tage of  this  state  of  strained  apprehension  to 
work  on  Maggie's  fears. 


160  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

One  evening  lie  was  escorting  her  home 
from  church,  when,  just  before  they  reached 
the  larch  copse : 

"Goo'  sakes!  What's  that?"  he  ejaculated 
in  horror-laden  accents,  starting  back. 

"What,  Davie?"  cried  the  girl,  shrinking 
up  to  him  all  in  a  tremble. 

"Couldna  say  for  sure.  It  mought  be  owt, 
or  agin  it  mought  be  nowt.  But  yo'  grip  my 
arm,  I'll  grip  yo'  waist." 

Maggie  demurred. 

"Canst  see  onythin'?"  she  asked,  still  in  a 
flutter. 

"Be'indthe  'edge." 

"Wheer?" 

"Theer!" — pointing  vaguely. 

"  I  canna  see  nowt." 

"  Why,  theer,  lass.  Can  yo'  not  see?  Then 
yo'  pit  your  head  along  o'  mine — so — closer — 
closer."  Then,  in  aggrieved  tones:  "What- 
ever is  the  matter  wi'  yo',  wench?  I  might 
be  a  leprosy." 

But  the  girl  was  walking  away  with  her 
head  high  as  the  snow-capped  Pike. 

"So  long  as  I  live,  David  M'Adam,"  she 
cried,  "  I'll  niver  go  to  church  wi'  you  agin!" 

"Iss,  but  you  will  though — onst,"  he  an- 
swered low. 

Maggie  whisked  round  in  a  flash,  superbly 
indignant. 

"What  d'yo'  mean,  sir-r-r?" 

"  Yo'  know  what  I  mean,  lass,"  he  replied, 


A  Mad  Man  161 

sheepish  and  shuffling  before  her  queenly 
anger. 

She  looked  him  up  and  down,  and  down  and 
up  again. 

"  1*11  niver  speak  to  you  agin,  Mr.  M'  Adam," 

she  cried;  "not  if  it  was  ever  so Nay, 

I'll  walk  home  by  myself,  thank  you.  I'll  ha' 
nowt  to  do  wi'  you." 

So  the  two  must  return  to  Kenmuir,  one 
behind  the  other,  like  a  lady  and  her  footman. 

David's  audacity  had  more  than  once  already 
all  but  caused  a  rupture  between  the  pair. 
And  the  occurrence  behind  the  hedge  set  the 
cap  on  his  impertinences.  That  was  past  en- 
during, and  Maggie  by  her  bearing  let  him 
know  it. 

David  tolerated  the  girl's  new  attitude  for 
exactly  twelve  minutes  by  the  kitchen  clock. 
Then:  "  Sulk  wi'  me,  indeed !  I'll  teach  her!" 
and  he  marched  out  of  the  door,  "Niver  to 
cross  it  agin,  ma  word!" 

Afterward,  however,  he  relented  so  far  as 
to  continue  his  visits  as  before ;  but  he  made 
it  clear  that  he  only  came  to  see  the  Master 
and  hear  of  Owd  Bob's  doings.  On  these  oc- 
casions he  loved  best  to  sit  on  the  window-sill 
outside  the  kitchen,  and  talk  and  chaff  with 
Tammas  and  the  men  in  the  yard,  feign- 
ing an  uneasy  bashfulness  was  reference  made 
to  Bessie  Bolstock.  And  after  sitting  thus  for 
some  time,  he  would  half  turn,  look  over  his 
shoulder,  and  remark  in  indifferent  tones  to 


1 62  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

the  girl  within:  "Oh,  good-evenin' !  I  forgot 
yo'," — and  then  resume  his  conversation. 
While  the  girl  within,  her  face  a  little  pinker, 
her  lips  a  little  tighter,  and  her  chin  a  little 
higher,  would  go  about  her  business,  pretend- 
ing neither  to  hear  nor  care. 

The  suspicions  that  M'  Adam  nourished  dark 
designs  against  James  Moore  were  somewhat 
confirmed  in  that,  on  several  occasions  in  the 
bitter  dusks  of  January  afternoons,  a  little  in- 
sidious figure  was  reported  to  have  been  seen 
lurking  among  the  farm-buildings  of  Kenmuir. 

Once  Sam'l  Todd  caught  the  little  man 
fairly,  skulking  away  in  the  woodshed.  Sam'l 
took  him  up  bodily  and  carried  him  down  the 
slope  to  the  Wastrel,  shaking  him  gently  as 
he  went. 

Across  the  stream  he  put  him  on  his  feet. 

"If  I  catches  yo'  cadgerin'  aroun'  the  farm 
agin,  little  mon,"  he  admonished,  holding  up 
a  warning  finger;  "I'll  tak'  yo'  and  drap  yo' 
in  t'  Sheep-wash,  I  warn  yo'  fair.  I'd  ha' 
done  it  noo  an'  yo'd  bin  a  bigger  and  a  younger 
mon.  But  theer!  yo'm  sic  a  scrappety  bit. 
Noo,  rin  whoam."  And  the  little  man  slunk 
silently  away. 

For  a  time  he  appeared  there  no  more. 
Then,  one  evening  when  it  was  almost  dark, 
James  Moore,  going  the  round  of  the  out- 
buildings, felt  Owd  Bob  stiffen  against  his 
side. 

"What's  oop,  lad?"  he  whispered,  halting; 


A   Mad  Man  163 

and,  dropping  his  hand  on  the  old  dog's  neck, 
felt  a  ruff  of  rising  hair  beneath  it. 

"  Steady,  lad,  steady,"  he  whispered ;  "  what 
is't?"  He  peered  forward  into  the  gloom ;  and 
at  length  discerned  a  little  familiar  figure  hud- 
dled away  in  the  crevice  between  two  stacks. 

"It's  yo,  is  it,  M'Adam?"  he  said,  and, 
bending,  seized  a  wisp  of  Owd  Bob's  coat  in  a 
grip  like  a  vice. 

Then,  in  a  great  voice,  moved  to  rare  anger: 
"  Oot  o'  this  afore  I  do  ye  a  hurt,  ye  meeserable 
spyin'  creetur!"  he  roared.  "Yo'  mun  wait 
till  dark  cooms  to  hide  yo',  yo'  coward,  afore 
yo  daur  coom  crawlin'  aboot  ma  hoose,  fright- 
enin'  the  women-folk  and  up  to  yer  devil- 
ments. If  yo've  owt  to  say  to  me,  coom  like 
a  mon  in  the  open  day.  Noo  git  aft"  wi'  yo', 
afore  I  lay  hands  to  yo' !" 

He  stood  there  in  the  dusk,  tall  and  mighty, 
a  terrible  figure,  one  hand  pointing  to  the  gate, 
the  other  still  grasping  the  gray  dog. 

The  little  man  scuttled  away  in  the  half- 
light,  and  out  of  the  yard. 

On  the  plank-bridge  he  turned  and  shook 
his  fist  at  the  darkening  house. 

"Curse  ye,  James  Moore!"  he  sobbed,  "I'll 
be  even  wi'  ye  yet." 


CHAPTER   XV 

DEATH    ON   THE    MARCHES 

On  the  top  of  this  there  followed  an  attempt 
to  poison  Th*  Owd  Un.  At  least  there  was 
no  other  accounting  for  the  affair. 

In  the  dead  of  a  long-remembered  night 
James  Moore  was  waked  by  a  low  moaning 
beneath  his  room.  He  leapt  out  of  bed  and 
ran  to  the  window  to  see  his  favorite  dragging 
about  the  moonlit  yard,  the  dark  head  down, 
the  proud  tail  for  once  lowered,  the  lithe  limbs 
wooden,  heavy,  unnatural — altogether  pitiful. 

In  a  moment  he  was  downstairs  and  out  to 
his  friend's  assistance.  "  Whativer  is't,  Owd 
Un?"  he  cried  in  anguish. 

At  the  sound  of  that  dear  voice  the  old  dog 
tried  to  struggle  to  him,  could  not,  and  fell, 
whimpering. 

In  a  second  the  Master  was  with  him,  exam- 
ining him  tenderly,  and  crying  for  Sam'l,  who 
slept  above  the  stables. 

There  was  every  symptom  of  foul  play:  the 
tongue  was  swollen  and  almost  black;  the 
breathing  labored ;  the  body  twitched  horribly ; 
and  the  soft  gray  eyes  all  bloodshot  and  strain- 
ing in  agony. 

With  the  aid  of  Sam'l  and  Maggie,  drench 


Death  on  the  Marches  165 

ing  first  and  stimulants  after,  the  Master  pulled 
him  round  for  the  moment.  And  soon  Jim 
Mason  and  Parson  Leggy,  hurriedly  sum- 
moned, came  running  hot-foot  to  the  rescue. 

Prompt  and  stringent  measures  saved  the 
victim — but  only  just.  For  a  time  the  best 
sheep-dog  in  the  North  was  pawing  at  the 
Gate  of  Death.  In  the  end,  as  the  gray  dawn 
broke,  the  danger  passed. 

The  attempt  to  get  at  him,  if  attempt  it  was, 
aroused  passionate  indignation  in  the  country- 
side. It  seemed  the  culminating-point  of  the 
excitement  long  bubbling. 

There  were  no  traces  of  the  culprit ;  not  a 
vestige  to  lead  to  incrimination,  so  cunningly 
had  the  criminal  accomplished  his  foul  task. 
But  as  to  the  perpetrator,  if  there  were  no 
proofs  there  were  yet  fewer  doubts. 

At  the  Sylvester  Arms  Long  Kirby  asked 
M*  Adam  point-blank  for  his  explanation  of  the 
matter.      « 

"Hoo  do  I  'count  for  it?"  the  little  man 
cried.     "  I  dinna  'count  for  it  ava." 

"Then  hoo  did  it  happen?"  asked  Tammas 
with  asperity. 

"I  dinna  believe  it  did  happen,"  the  little 
man  replied.  "  It's  a  lee  o'  James  Moore's — 
a  charactereestic  lee. "  Whereon  they  chucked 
him  out  incontinently ;  for  the  Terror  for  once 
was  elsewhere. 

Now  that  afternoon  is  to  be  remembered 
for  threefold  causes.     Firstly,  because,  as  has 


1 66  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

been  said,  M'Adam  was  alone.  Secondly,  be- 
cause, a  few  minutes  after  bis  ejectment,  tbe 
window  of  tbe  tap-room  was  tbrown  open  from 
without,  and  tbe  little  man  looked  in.  He 
spoke  no  word,  but  tbose  dim,  smouldering 
eyes  of  his  wandered  from  face  to  face,  resting 
for  a  second  on  each,  as  if  to  burn  them  on  his 
memory.  "I'll  remember  ye,  gentlemen," 
he  said  at  length  quietly,  shut  the  window, 
and  was  gone. 

Thirdly,  for  a  reason  now  to  be  told. 

Though  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  the  at- 
tempt on  him,  the  gray  dog  had  never  been 
his  old  self  since.  He  had  attacks  of  shiver- 
ing; his  vitality  seemed  sapped;  he  tired 
easily,  and,  great  heart,  would  never  own  it. 
At  length  on  this  day,  James  Moore,  leaving 
the  old  dog  behind  him,  had  gone  over  to 
Grammoch-town  to  consult  Dingley,  the  vet. 
On  his  way  home  he  met  Jim  Mason  with 
Gyp,  the  faithful  Betsy's  unworthy  successor, 
at  the  Dalesman's  Daughter.  Together  they 
started  for  the  long  tramp  home  over  the 
Marches.  And  that  journey  is  marked  with  a 
red  stone  in  this  story. 

All  day  long  the  hills  had  been  bathed  in 
impenetrable  fog.  Throughout  there  had  been 
an  accompanying  drizzle ;  and  in  the  distance 
the  wind  had  moaned  a  storm-menace.  To  the 
darkness  of  the  day  was  added  the  sombreness 
of  falling  night  as  the  three  began  the  ascent 
of  the  Murk  Muir  Pass.     By  the  time  they 


Death  on  the  Marches  167 

emerged  into  the  Devil's  Bowl  it  was  alto- 
gether black  and  blind.  But  the  threat  of 
wind  had  passed,  leaving  utter  stillness;  and 
they  could  hear  the  soft  splash  of  an  otter  on 
the  far  side  of  the  Lone  Tarn  as  they  skirted 
that  gloomy  water's  edge.  When  at  length 
the  last  steep  rise  on  to  the  Marches  had  been 
topped,  a  breath  of  soft  air  smote  them  lightly, 
and  the  curtain  of  fog  began  drifting  away. 

The  two  men  swung  steadily  through  the 
heather  with  that  reaching  stride  the  birth- 
right of  moor-men  and  highlanders.  They 
talked  but  little,  for  such  was  their  nature :  a 
word  or  two  on  sheep  and  the  approaching 
lambing-time ;  thence  on  to  the  coming  Trials ; 
the  Shepherds'  Trophy;  Owd  Bob  and  the 
attempt  on  him;  and  from  that  to  M'Adam 
and  the  Tailless  Tyke. 

"D'yo'  reck'n  M'Adam  had  a  hand  in't?" 
the  postman  was  asking. 

"Nay;  there's  no  proof." 

"  'Ceptin'  he's  mad  to  get  shut  o'  Th'  Owd 
Un  afore  Cup  Day." 

"  'Im  or  me — it  mak's  no  differ."  For  a 
dog  is  disqualified  from  competing  for  the 
Trophy  who  has  changed  hands  during  the 
six  months  prior  to  the  meeting.  And  this 
holds  good  though  the  change  be  only  from 
father  to  son  on  the  decease  of  the  former. 

Jim  looked  up  inquiringly  at  his  companion. 

"D'yo'  think  it'll  coom  to  that?"  he  asked 

"What?" 


1 68  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Why— murder." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  the  other  answered 
grimly. 

The  fog  had  cleared  away  by  now,  and  the 
moon  was  up.  To  .their  right,  on  the  crest  of 
a  rise  some  two  hundred  yards  away,  a  low 
wood  stood  out  black  against  the  sky.  As  they 
passed  it,  a  blackbird  rose  up  screaming,  and 
a  brace  of  wood-pigeons  winged  noisily  away. 

"Hullo!  hark  to  the  yammerin' !"  muttered 
Jim,  stopping;  "and  at  this  time  o'  night 
too!" 

Some  rabbits,  playing  in  the  moonlight  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  sat  up,  listened,  and 
hopped  back  into  security.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment a  big  hill-fox  slunk  out  of  the  covert. 
He  stole  a  pace  forward  and  halted,  listening 
with  one  ear  back  and  one  pad  raised;  then 
cantered  silently  away  in  the  gloom,  passing 
close  to  the  two  men  and  yet  not  observing 
them. 

"What's  up,  I  wonder?"  mused  the  post- 
man. 

"The  fox  set  'em  clackerin',  I  reck'n,"  said 
the  Master. 

"Not  he;  he  was  scared  'maist  oot  o'  his 
skin,"  the  other  answered.  Then  in  tones  of 
suppressed  excitement,  with  his  hand  on  James 
Moore's  arm:  "And,  look  'ee,  theer's  ma  Gyp 
a-beckonin'  on  us!" 

There,  indeed,  on  the  crest  of  the  rise  be- 
side  the   wood,  was   the   little   lurcher,   now 


Death  on  the  Marches  169 

looking  back  at  his  master,  now  creeping 
stealthily  forward. 

"  Ma  word !  theer's  summat  wrong  yonder!" 
cried  Jim,  and  jerked  the  post-bags  off  his 
shoulder.  "  Coom  on,  Master !" — and  he  set  off 
running  toward  the  dog;  while  James  Moore, 
himself  excited  now,  followed  with  an  agility 
that  belied  his  years. 

Some  score  yards  from  the  lower  edge  of 
the  spinney,  upon  the  farther  side  of  the  ridge, 
a  tiny  beck  babbled  through  its  bed  of  peat. 
The  two  men,  as  they  topped  the  rise,  noticed 
a  flock  of  black-faced  mountain-sheep  clustered 
in  the  dip  'twixt  wood  and  stream.  They 
stood  martialled  in  close  array,  facing  half 
toward  the  wood,  half  toward  the  newcomers, 
heads  up,  eyes  glaring,  handsome  as  sheep 
only  look  when  scared. 

On  the  crest  of  the  ridge  the  two  men  halted 
beside  Gyp.  The  postman  stood  with  his  head 
a  little  forward,  listening  intently.  Then  he 
dropped  in  the  heather  like  a  dead  man,  pull- 
ing the  other  with  him. 

"Doon,  mon!"  he  whispered,  clutching  at 
Gyp  with  his  spare  hand. 

"What  is't,  Jim?"  asked  the  Master,  now 
thoroughly  roused. 

"Summat  movin'  i'  th'  wood,"  the  other 
whispered,  listening  weasel-eared. 

So  they  lay  motionless  for  a  while ;  but  there 
came  no  sound  from  the  copse. 

"  'Appen  'twas  nowt,"  the  postman  at  length 


170  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

allowed,  peering  cautiously  about.     "  And  yet 
I  thowt — I  dunno  reetly  what  I  thowt." 

Then,  starting  to  his  knees  with  a  hoarse  cry 
of  terror:  "Save  us!  what's  yon  theer?" 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  Master  raised  his 
head  and  noticed,  lying  in  the  gloom  between 
them  and  the  array  of  sheep,  a  still,  white  heap. 

James  Moore  was  a  man  of  deeds,  not  words. 

"  It's  past  waitin' !"  he  said,  and  sprang  for- 
ward, his  heart  in  his  mouth. 

The  sheep  stamped  and  shuffled  as  he  came, 
and  yet  did  not  break. 

"Ah,  thanks  be!"  he  cried,  dropping  beside 
the  motionless  body;  "it's  nob' but  a  sheep." 
As  he  spoke  his  hands  wandered  deftly  over 
the  carcase.  "But  what's  this?"  he  called. 
"  Stout1  she  was  as  me.  Look  at  her  fleece — 
crisp,  close,  strong;  feel  the  flesh — firm  as  a 
rock.  And  ne'er  a  bone  broke,  ne'er  a  scrat 
on  her  body  a  pin  could  mak'.  As  healthy  as 
a  mon — and  yet  dead  as  mutton!" 

Jim,  still  trembling  from  the  horror  of  his 
fear,  came  up,  and  knelt  beside  his  friend. 
"Ah,  but  there's  bin  devilry  in  this!"  he  said; 
"  I  reck'ned  they  sheep  had  bin  badly  skeared, 
and  not  so  long  agone." 

"Sheep-murder,  sure  enough!"  the  other 
answered.  "No  fox's  doin' — a  girt-grown 
two-shear  as  could  'maist  knock  a  h'ox." 

Jim's  hands  travelled  from  the  body  to  the 
dead  creature's  throat.     He  screamed. 
1  Stout— hearty. 


Death  on  the  Marches  171 

* 

"  By  gob,  Master !  look  'ee  theer  I"  He  held 
his  hand  up  in  the  moonlight,  and  it  dripped 
red.     "And  warm  yet!  warm!" 

"Tear  some  bracken,  Jim!"  ordered  the 
other,  "  and  set  a-light.     We  mun  see  to  this." 

The  postman  did  as  bid.  For  a  moment 
the  fern  smouldered  and  smoked,  then  the  flame 
ran  crackling  along  and  shot  up  in  the  dark- 
ness, weirdly  lighting  the  scene :  to  the  right 
the  low  wood,  a  block  of  solid  blackness 
against  the  sky;  in  front  the  wall  of  sheep, 
staring  out  of  the  gloom  with  bright  eyes; 
and  as  centre-piece  that  still,  white  body,  with 
the  kneeling  men  and  lurcher  sniffing  tenta- 
tively round. 

The  victim  was  subjected  to  a  critical  exam- 
ination. The  throat,  and  that  only,  had  been 
hideously  mauled ;  from  the  raw  wounds  the 
flesh  hung  in  horrid  shreds ;  on  the  ground  all 
about  were  little  pitiful  dabs  of  wool,  wrenched 
off  apparently  in  a  struggle;  and,  crawling 
among  the  fern-roots,  a  snake-like  track  of  red 
led  down  to  the  stream. 

"  A  dog's  doin',  and  no  mistakin'  thot,"  said 
Jim  at  length,  after  a  minute  inspection. 

"Ay,"  declared  the  Master  with  slow  em- 
phasis, "and  a  sheep-dog's  too,  and  an  old 
un's,  or  I'm  no  shepherd." 

The  postman  looked  up. 

"Why  thot?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"Becos,"  the  Master  answered,  " 'im  as  did 
this  killed  for  blood — and  for  blood  only.     If 


172  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

had  bin  ony  other  dog — greyhound,  bull, 
tarrier,  or  even  a  young  sheep-dog — d'yo' 
think  he'd  ha'  stopped  wi'  the  one?  Not  he; 
he'd  ha'  gone  through  'em,  and  be  runnin' 
'em  as  like  as  not  yet,  nippin'  'em,  pullin' 
'em  down,  till  he'd  maybe  killed  the  half. 
But  'im  as  did  this  killed  for  blood,  I  say. 
He  got  it — killed  just  the  one,  and  nary 
touched  the  others,  d'yo  'see,  Jim?" 

The  postman  whistled,  long  and  low. 

"It's  just  what  owd  Wrottesley'd  tell  on,'" 
he  said.  "  I  never  nob 'but  half  believed  him 
then — I  do  now  though.  D'yo'  mind  what  th' 
owd  lad'd  tell,  Master?" 

James  Moore  nodded. 

"Thot's  it.  I've  never  seen  the  like  afore 
myself,  but  I've  heard  ma  granddad  speak  o't 
mony's  the  time.  An  owd  dog'll  git  the  crav- 
in'  for  sheep's  blood  on  him,  just  the  same  as 
a  mon  does  for  the  drink;  he  creeps  oot  o' 
nights,  gallops  afar,  hunts  his  sheep,  downs 
'er,  and  satisfies  the  cravin'.  And  he  nary 
kills  but  the  one,  they  say,  for  he  knows  tue 
vallie  o'  sheep  same  as  you  and  me.  He  has 
his  gallop,  quenches  the  thirst,  and  then  he's 
for  home,  maybe  a  score  mile  away,  and  no 
one  the  wiser  i'  th'  mornin'.  And  so  on,  till 
he  cooms  to  a  bloody  death,  the  murderin' 
traitor." 

"If  he  does!"  said  Jim. 

"  And  he  does,  they  say,  nigh  always.  For 
he  gets  bolder  and  bolder  wi'  not  bein'  caught, 


Death  on  the  Marches  173 

until  one  fine  night  a  bullet  lets  light  into  him. 
And  some  mon  gets  knocked  nigh  endways 
when  they  bring  his  best  tyke  home  i'  th' 
mornin',  dead,  wi'  the  sheep's  wool  yet  stickin' 
in  his  mouth." 

The  postman  whistled  again. 

"  It's  what  owd  Wrottesley'd  tell  on  to  a 
tick.  And  he'd  say,  if  ye  mind,  Master,  as  hoo 
the  dog'd  niver  kill  his  master's  sheep — kind 
o'  conscience-like." 

"Ay,  I've  heard  that,"  said  the  Master. 
"Queer  too,  and  'im  bein'  such  a  bad  un!" 

Jim  Mason  rose  slowly  from  his  knees. 

"Ma  word,"  he  said,  "I  wish  Th'  Owd 
Un  was  here.  He'd  'appen  show  us  sum- 
mat!" 

"  I  nob'but  wish  he  was,  pore  owd  lad !"  said 
the  Master. 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  crash  in  the  wood 
above  them ;  a  sound  as  of  some  big  body 
bursting  furiously  through  brushwood. 

The  two  men  rushed  to  the  top  of  the  rise. 
In  *the  darkness  they  could  see  nothing ;  only, 
standing  still  and  holding  their  breaths,  they 
could  hear  the  faint  sound,  ever  growing 
fainter,  of  some  creature  splashing  in  a  hasty 
gallop  over  the  wet  moors. 

"Yon's  him!  Yon 's  no  fox,  I'll  tak'  oath. 
And  a  main  big  un,  too,  hark  to  him!"  cried 
Jim.  Then  to  Gyp,  who  had  rushed  off  in 
hot  pursuit :  "  Coom  back,  chunk- 'ead.  What's 
use  o'  you  agin  a  gallopin'  'potamus?" 


174  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Gradually  the  sounds  died  away  and  away, 
and  were  no  more. 

"Thot's  'im,  the  devil!"  said  the  Master  at 
length. 

"Nay;  the  devil  has  a  tail,  they  do  say," 
replied  Jim  thoughtfully.  For  already  the 
light  of  suspicion  was  focusing  its  red  glare. 

"  Noo  I  reck'n  we're  in  for  bloody  times 
amang  the  sheep  for  a  while,"  said  the  Master, 
as  Jim  picked  up  his  bags. 

"Better  a  sheep  nor  a  mon,"  answered  the 
postman,  still  harping  on  the  old  theme. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   BLACK   KILLER 

That,  as  James  Moore  had  predicted,  was 
the  first  only  of  a  long  succession  of  J  such  soli- 
tary crimes. 

Those  who  have  not  lived  in  a  desolate 
country  like  that  about  the  Muir  Pike,  where 
sheep  are  paramount  and  every  other  man  en- 
gaged in  the  profession  pastoral,  can  barely 
imagine  the  sensation  aroused.  In  market- 
place, tavern,  or  cottage,  the  subject  of  con- 
versation was  always  the  latest  sheep-murder 
and  the  yet-undetected  criminal. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  lujl,  and  the 
shepherds  would  begin  to  breathe  more  freely. 
Then  there  would  come  a  stormy  night,  when 
the  heavens  were  veiled  in  the  cloak  of  crime, 
and  the  wind  moaned  fitfully  over  meres  and 
marches,  and  another  victim  would  be  added 
to  the  lengthening  list. 

It  was  always  such  black  nights,  nights  of 
wind  and  weather,  when  no  man  would  be 
abroad,  that  the  murderer  chose  for  his  bloody 
work;  and  that  was  how  he  became  known 
from  the  Red  Screes  to  the  Muir  Pike  as  the 
Black  Killer.  In  the  Daleland  they  still  call 
a  wild,  wet  night  "A  Black  Killer's  night"; 


176  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

for  they  say:  "His  ghaist'll  be  oot  the 
night." 

There  was  hardly  a  farm  in  the  country-side 
but  was  marked  with  the  seal  of  blood.  Ken- 
muir  escaped,  and  the  Grange ;  Rob  Saunder- 
son  at  the  Holt,  and  Tupper  at  Swinsthwaite ; 
and  they  were  about  the  only  lucky  ones. 

As  for  Kenmuir,  Tammas  declared  with  a 
certain  grim  pride:  "He  knows  better'n  to 
coom  wheer  Th'  Owd  Un  be."  Whereat 
M'Adam  was  taken  with  a  fit  of  internal 
spasms,  rubbing  his  knees  and  cackling  in- 
sanely for  a  half-hour  afterward.  And  as  for 
the  luck  of  the  Grange — well,  there  was  a 
reason  for  that  too,  so  the  Dalesmen  said. 

Though  the  area  of  crime  stretched  from  the 
Black  Water  to  Grammoch-town,  twenty  odd 
miles,  there  was  never  a  sign  of  the  perpetra- 
tor. The  Killer  did  his  bloody  work  with  a 
thoroughness  and  a  devilish  cunning  that  de- 
fied detection. 

It  was  plain  that  each  murder  might  be  set 
down  to  the  same  agency.  Each  was  stamped 
with  the  same  unmistakable  sign-manual :  one 
sheep  killed,  its  throat  torn  into  red  ribands, 
and  the  others  untouched. 

It  was  at  the  instigation  of  Parson  Leggy 
that  the  squire  imported  a  bloodhound  to 
track  the  Killer  to  his  doom.  Set  on  at  a 
fresh-killed  carcase  at  the  One  Tree  Knowe, 
he  carried  the  line  a  distance  in  the  direction 
of  the  Muir  Pike ;  then  was  thrown  out  by  a 


The  Black  Killer  177 

little  bustling  beck,  and  never  acknowledged 
the  scent  again.  Afterward  he  became  un- 
manageable, and  could  be  no  further  utilized. 
Then  there  was  talk  of  inducing  Tommy 
Dobson  and  his  pack  to  come  over  from  Esk- 
dale,  but  that  came  to  nothing.  The  Master 
of  the  Border  Hunt  lent  a  couple  of  foxhounds, 
who  effected  nothing;  and  there  was  a  hun- 
dred other  attempts  and  as  many  failures.  Jim 
Mason  set  a  cunning  trap  or  two,  and  caught 
his  own  bob-tailed  tortoise-shell  and  a  ter- 
rible wigging  from  his  missus;  Ned  Hoppin 
sat  up  with  a  gun  two  nights  over  a  new-slain 
victim;  and  Londesley  of  the  Home  Farm 
poisoned  a  carcase.  But  the  Killer  never  re- 
turned to  the  kill,  and  went  about  in  the  midst 
of  them  all,  carrying  on  his  infamous  traffic 
and  laughing  up  his  sleeve. 

In  the  mean  while  the  Dalesmen  raged  and 
swore  vengeance ;  their  impotence,  their  unsuc- 
cess,  and  their  losses  heating  their  wrath  to 
madness.  And  the  bitterest  sting  of  it  all  lay 
in  this :  that  though  they  could  not  detect  him, 
they  were  nigh  to  positive  as  to  the  culprit. 

Many  a  time  was  the  Black  Killer  named  in 
low-voiced  conclave;  many  a  time  did  Long 
Kirby,  as  he  stood  in  the  Border  Ram  and 
watched  M'Adam  and  the  Terror  walking 
down  the  High,  nudge  Jim  Mason  and  whisper: 

"Theer's  the  Killer — oneasy  be  his  grave  F 
To  which  practical  Jim  always  made  the  same 
retort : 


178  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"Ay,  theer's  the  Killer;  but  wheer's  the 
proof?" 

And  therein  lay  the  crux.  There  was 
scarcely  a  man  in  the  country-side  who  doubted 
the  guilt  of  the  Tailless  Tyke ;  but,  as  Jim  said, 
where  was  the  proof?  They  could  but  point 
to  his  well-won  nickname ;  his  evil  notoriety ; 
say  that,  magnificent  sheep-dog  as  he  was,  he 
was  known  even  in  his  work  as  a  rough  handler 
of  stock ;  and  lastly  remark  significantly  that 
the  Grange  was  one  of  the  few  farms  that  had 
so  far  escaped  unscathed.  For  with  the  belief 
that  the  Black  Killer  was  a  sheep-dog  they 
held  it  as  an  article  of  faith  that  he  would  in 
honor  spare  his  master's  flock. 

There  may,  indeed,  have  been  prejudice  in 
their  judgment.  For  each  had  his  private 
grudge  against  the  Terror;  and  nigh  every 
man  bore  on  his  own  person,  or  his  clothes, 
or  on  the  body  of  his  dog,  the  mark  of  that 
huge  savage. 

Proof? 

"Why,  he  near  killed  ma  Lassie!"  cries 
Londesley. 

"And  he  did  kill  the  Wexer!" 

"And  WanTromp!" 

"And  see  pore  old  Wenus!"  says  John 
Swan,  and  pulls  out  that  fair  Amazon,  battered 
almost  past  recognition,  but  a  warrioress  still. 

"That's  Red  Wull— bloody  be  his  end!" 

"  And  he  laid  ma  Rasper  by  for  nigh  three 
weeks !"  continues  Tupper,  pointing  to  the  yet- 


The  Black  Killer  179 

unhealed  scars  on  the  neck  of  the  big  bobtail. 
"See  thisey — his  work." 

"And  look  here!"  cries  Saunderson,  expos- 
ing a  ragged  wound  on  Shep's  throat;  "  thot's 
the  Terror— black  be  his  fa' !" 

"  Ay, "  says  Long  Kirby  with  an  oath ;  "  the 
tykes  love  him  nigh  as  much  as  we  do." 

"  Yes, "  says  Tammas.     "  Yo'  jest  watch !" 

The  old  man  slips  out  of  the  tap-room  ;  and 
in  another  moment  from  the  road  without 
comes  a  heavy,  regular  pat-pat-pat,  as  of  some 
big  creature  approaching,  and,  blending  with 
the  sound,  little  shuffling  footsteps. 

In  an  instant  every  dog  in  the  room  has 
risen  to  his  feet  and  stands  staring  at  the  door 
with  sullen,  glowing  eyes;  lips  wrinkling, 
bristles  rising,  throats  rumbling. 

An  unsteady  hand  fumbles  at  the  door;  a 
reedy  voice  calls,  "Wullie,  come  here!"  and 
the  dogs  move  away,  surly,  to  either  side  the 
fireplace,  tails  down,  ears  back,  grumbling 
still ;  the  picture  of  cowed  passion. 

Then  the  door  opens;  Tammas  enters, 
grinning ;  and  each,  after  a  moment's  scrutiny, 
resumes  his  former  position  before  the  fire. 

Meanwhile  over  M'Adam,  seemingly  all  un- 
suspicious of  these  suspicions,  a  change  had 
come.  Whether  it  was  that  for  the  time  be 
heard  less  of  the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North, 
or  for  some  more  occult  reason,  certain  it  is 
that  he   became    his   old   self.       His   tongue 


180  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

wagged  as  gayly  and  bitterly  as  ever;  and 
hardly  a  night  passed  but  he  infuriated  Tam- 
mas  almost  to  blows  with  his  innuendoes  and 
insidious  sarcasms. 

Old  Jonas  Maddox,  one  evening  at  the  Syl- 
vester Arms,  inquired  of  him  what  his  notion 
was  as  to  identity  of  the  Killer. 

"I  hae  ma  suspicions,  Mr.  Maddox;  I  hae 
ma  suspicions,"  the  little  man  replied,  cun- 
ningly wagging  his  head  and  giggling.  But 
more  than  that  they  could  not  elicit  from  him. 
A  week  later,  however,  to  the  question : 

"And  what  are  yo'  thinkin'  o'  this  Black 
Killer,  Mr.  M'Adam?" 

"  Why  black  f  the  little  man  asked  ear- 
nestly ;  "  why  black  mair  than  white — or  gray, 
we'll  say?"  Luckily  for  him,  however,  the 
Dalesmen  are  slow  of  wit  as  of  speech. 

David,  too,  marked  the  difference  in  his 
father,  who  nagged  at  him  now  with  all  the 
old  spirit.  At  first  he  rejoiced  in  the  change, 
preferring  this  outward  and  open  warfare  to 
that  aforetime  stealthy  enmity.  But  soon  he 
almost  wished  the  other  back ;  for  the  older  he 
grew  the  more  difficult  did  he  find  it  to  endure 
calmly  these  everlasting  bickerings. 

For  one  reason  he  was  truly  glad  of  the  al- 
tered condition  of  affairs;  he  believed  that, 
for  the  nonce  at  least,  his  father  had  abandoned 
any  ill  designs  he  might  have  cherished  against 
James  Moore;  those  sneaking  night-visits  to 
Kenmuir  were,  he  hoped,  discontinued. 


The   Black  Killer  181 

Yet  Maggie  Moore,  had  she  been  on  speak- 
ing terms  with  him,  could  have  undeceived 
him.  For,  one  night,  when  alone  in  the 
kitchen,  on  suddenly  looking  up,  she  had  seen 
to  her  horror  a  dim,  moonlike  face  glued  against 
the  window-pane.  In  the  first  mad  panic  of 
the  moment  she  almost  screamed,  and  dropped 
her  work ;  then — a  true  Moore — controlled  her- 
self and  sat  feigning  to  work,  yet  watching  all 
the  while. 

It  was  M'Adam,  she  recognized  that:  the 
face  pale  in  its  framework  of  black ;  the  hair 
lying  dank  and  dark  on  his  forehead ;  and  the 
white  eyelids  blinking,  slow,  regular,  horrible. 
She  thought  of  the  stories  she  had  heard  of 
his  sworn  vengeance  on  her  father,  and  her 
heart  stood  still,  though  she  never  motfed.  At 
length  with  a  gasp  of  relief  she  discerned  that 
the  eyes  were  not  directed  on  her.  Stealthily 
following  their  gaze,  she  saw  they  rested  on 
the  Shepherds'  Trophy;  and  on  the  Cup  they 
remained  fixed  immovable,  while  she  sat  mo- 
tionless and  watched. 

An  hour,  it  seemed  to  her,  elapsed  before 
they  shifted  their  direction,  and  wandered 
round  the  room.  For  a  second  they  dwelt  upon 
her;  then  the  face  withdrew  into  the  night. 

Maggie  told  no  one  what  she  had  seen. 
Knowing  well  how  terrible  her  father  was  in 
anger,  she  deemed  it  wiser  to  keep  silence. 
While  as  for  David  M'  Adam,  she  should  never 
speak  to  him  again ! 


1 82  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

And  not  for  a  moment  did  that  young  man 
surmise  whence  his  father  came  when,  on  the 
night  in  question,  M'Adam  returned  to  the 
Grange,  chuckling  to  himself.  David  was 
growing  of  late  accustomed  to  these  fits  of 
silent,  unprovoked  merriment ;  and  when  his 
father  began  giggling  and  muttering  to  Red 
Wull,  at  first  he  paid  no  heed. 

"He!  he!  Wullie.  Aiblins  we'll  beat  him 
yet.  There's  many  a  slip  twixt  Cup  and  lip — 
eh,  Wullie,  he!  he!"  And  he  made  allusion 
to  the  flourishing  of  the  wicked  and  their  fall ; 
ending  always  with  the  same  refrain :  "  He ! 
he!  Wullie.     Aiblins  we'll  beat  him  yet." 

In  this  strain  he  continued  until  David,  his 
patience  exhausted,  asked  roughly: 

"What  is't  yo*  mumblin'  aboot?  Wha  is  it 
yo'll  beat,  you  and  yer  Wullie?" 

The  lad's  tone  was  as  contemptuous  as  his 
words.  Long  ago  he  had  cast  aside  any  sem- 
blance of  respect  for  his  father. 

M'Adam  only  rubbed  his  knees  and  gig- 
gled. 

"  Hark  to  the  dear  lad,  Wullie !  Listen  hoo 
pleasantly  he  addresses  his  auld  dad!"  Then 
turning  on  his  son,  and  leering  at  him:  "Wha 
is  it,  ye  ask  ?  Wha  should  it  be  but  the  Black 
Killer?  Wha  else  is  there  I'd  be  wushin'  to 
hurt?" 

"The  Black  Killer!"  echoed  the  boy,  and 
looked  at  his  father  in  amazement. 

Now  David  was   almost   the   only  man  in 


The  Black  Killer  183 

Wastrel-dale  who  denied  Red  Willi's  identity 
with  the  Killer.  "  Nay,"  he  said  once ;  " he'd 
kill  me,  given  half  a  chance,  but  a  sheep — no." 
Yet,  though  himself  of  this  opinion,  he  knew 
well  what  the  talk  was,  and  was  astonished  ac- 
cordingly at  his  father's  remark. 

"  The  Black  Killer,  is  it  ?  What  d'you  know 
o'  the  Killer?"  he  inquired. 

"  Why  black,  I  wad  ken  ?  Why  black  ?  "  the 
little  man  asked,  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair. 

Now  David,  though  repudiating  in  the  vil- 
lage Red  Wull's  complicity  with  the  crimes, 
at  home  was  never  so  happy  as  when  casting 
cunning  innuendoes  to  that  effect. 

"What  would  you  have  him  then?"  he 
asked.  "  Red,  yaller,  muck-dirt  colorf " — and 
he  stared  significantly  at  the  Tailless  Tyke, 
who  was  lying  at  his  master's  feet.  The  little 
man  ceased  rubbing  his  knees  and  eyed  the 
boy.  David  shifted  uneasily  beneath  that 
dim,  persistent  stare. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  length  gruffly. 

The  little  man  giggled,  and  his  two  thin 
hands  took  up  their  task  again. 

"  Aiblins  his  puir  auld  doited  fool  of  a  dad 
kens  mair  than  the  dear  lad  thinks  for,  ay,  or 
wushes — eh,  Wullie,  he!  he!" 

"  Then  what  is  it  you  do  know,  or  think  yo' 
know  ? '  David  asked  irritably. 

The  little  man  nodded  and  chuckled. 

"Naethin*  ava,  laddie,  naethin'  worth  the 


184  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

mention.  Only  aiblins  the  Killer'll  be  caught 
afore  sae  lang." 

David  smiled  incredulously,  wagging  his 
head  in  offensive  scepticism. 

"  Yo'll  catch  him  yo'self,  I  s'pose,  you  and 
yer  Wullie?  Tak'  a  chair  on  to  the  Marches, 
whistle  a  while,  and  when  the  Killer  comes, 
why!  pit  a  pinch  o'  salt  upon  his  tail — if  he 
has  one." 

At  the  last  words,  heavily  punctuated  by  the 
speaker,  the  little  man  stopped  his  rubbing  as 
though  shot. 

"What  wad  ye  mean  by  that?"  he  asked 
softly. 

"What  wad  I?"  the  boy  replied. 

"I  dinna  ken  for  sure,"  the  little  man  an- 
swered ;  "  and  it's  aiblins  just  as  well  for  you, 
dear  lad" — in  fawning  accents — "  that  I  dinna. " 
He  began  rubbing  and  giggling  afresh.  "  It's 
a  gran'  thing,  Wullie,  to  ha'  a  dutiful  son;  a 
shairp  lad  wha  has  no  silly  sense  o'  shame 
aboot  sharpenin'  his  wits  at  his  auld  dad's 
expense.  And  yet,  despite  oor  facetious  lad 
there,  aiblins  we  will  ha'  a  hand  in  the  Killer's 
catchin',  you  and  I,  Wullie — he!  he!"  And 
the  great  dog  at  his  feet  wagged  his  stump- 
tail  in  reply. 

David  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  across 
the  room  to  where  his  father  sat. 

"  If  yo*  know  sic  a  mighty  heap,"  he  shouted, 
"happen  yo'll  just  tell  me  what  yo'  do 
know!" 


The  Black  Killer  185 

M'Adam  stopped  stroking  Red  Willi's  mas- 
sive head,  and  looked  up. 

"  Tell  ye  ?  Ay,  wha  should  I  tell  if  not  ma 
dear  David?  Tell?  Ay,  I'll  tell  ye  this"— . 
with  a  sudden  snarl  of  bitterness — "that you'd 
be  the  vairy  last  person  I  wad  tell." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

A   MAD   DOG 

David  and  Maggie,  meanwhile,  were  drift- 
ing further  and  further  apart.  He  now 
thought  the  girl  took  too  much  upon  herself; 
that  this  assumption  of  the  woman  and  the 
mother  was  overdone.  Once,  on  a  Sunday,  he 
caught  her  hearing  Andrew  his  catechism. 
He  watched  the  performance  through  a  crack 
in  the  door,  and  listened,  giggling,  to  her  sim- 
ple teaching.  At  length  his  merriment  grew 
so  boisterous  that  she  looked  up,  saw  him, 
and,  straightway  rising  to  her  feet,  crossed  the 
room  and  shut  the  door;  tendering  her  un- 
spoken rebuke  with  such  a  sweet  dignity  that 
he  slunk  away  for  once  decently  ashamed. 
And  the  incident  served  to  add  point  to  his 
hostility. 

Consequently  he  was  seldom  at  Kenmuir, 
and  more  often  at  home,  quarrelling  with  his 
father. 

Since  that  day,  two  years  before,  when  the 
boy  had  been  an  instrument  in  the  taking  of 
the  Cup  from  him,  father  and  son  had  been 
like  two  vessels  charged  with  electricity,  con- 
tact between  which  might  result  at  any  mo- 


A  Mad  Dog  187 

ment  in  a  shock  and  a  flash.  This  was  the 
outcome  not  of  a  moment,  but  of  years. 

Of  late  the  contest  had  raged  markedly 
fierce;  for  M'Adam  noticed  his  son's  more 
frequent  presence  at  home,  and  commented  on 
the  fact  in  his  usual  spirit  of  playful  raillery. 

"What's  come  to  ye,  David?"  he  asked  one 
day.  "Yer  auld  dad's  head  is  nigh  turned 
wi'  yer  condescension.  Is  James  Moore  feared 
ye '11  steal  the  Cup  fra  him,  as  ye  stole  it  from 
me,  that  he'll  not  ha'  ye  at  Kenmuir?  or  what 
is  it?" 

"  I  thought  I  could  maybe  keep  an  eye  on 
the  Killer  gin  I  stayed  here,"  David  answered, 
leering  at  Red  Wull.  • 

"Ye'd  do  better  at  Kenmuir— eh,  Wullie!" 
the  little  man  replied. 

"Nay,"  the  other  answered,  "he'll  not  go  to 
Kenmuir.  There's  Th'  Owd  Un  to  see  to  him 
there  o'  nights." 

The  little  man  whipped  round. 

"Are  ye  so  sure  he  is  there  o'  nights,  ma 
lad?"  he  asked  with  slow  significance. 

"  He  was  there  when  some  one — I  dinna  say 
who,  though  I  have  ma  thoughts — tried  to 
poison  him,"  sneered  the  boy,  mimicking  his 
father's  manner. 

M'Adam  shook  his  head. 

"  If  he  was  poisoned,  and  noo  I  think  aiblins 
he  was,  he  didna  pick  it  up  at  Kenmuir,  I  tell 
ye  that,"  he  said,  and  marched  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Black  Killer  pursued 


1 88  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

his  bloody  trade  unchecked.  The  public,  al- 
ways greedy  of  a  new  sensation,  took  up  the 
matter.  In  several  of  the  great  dailies,  arti- 
cles on  the  "  Agrarian  Outrages"  appeared,  fol- 
lowed by  lengthy  correspondence.  Contro- 
versy raged  high ;  each  correspondent  had  his 
own  theory  and  his  own  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem; and  each  waxed  indignant  as  his  were 
discarded  for  another's. 

The  Terror  had  reigned  already  two  months 
when,  with  the  advent  of  the  lambing-time, 
matters  took  a  yet  more  serious  aspect. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  lose  one  sheep,  often 
the  finest  in  the  pack;  but  the  hunting  of  a 
flock  at  a  critical  moment,  which  was  incidental 
to  the  slaughter  of  the  one,  the  scaring  of 
these  woolly  mothers-about-to-be  almost  out  of 
their  fleeces,  spelt  for  the  small  farmers  some- 
thing akin  to  ruin,  for  the  bigger  ones  a  loss 
hardly  bearable. 

Such  a  woful  season  had  never  been  known ; 
loud  were  the  curses,  deep  the  vows  of  revenge. 
Many  a  shepherd  at  that  time  patrolled  all 
night  through  with  his  dogs,  only  to  find  in 
the  morning  that  the  Killer  had  slipped  him 
and  havocked  in  some  secluded  portion  of  his 
beat. 

It  was  heartrending  work ;  and  all  the  more 
so  in  that,  though  his  incrimination  seemed  as 
far  off  as  ever,  there  was  still  the  same  posi- 
tiveness  as  to  the  culprit's  identity. 

Long  Kirby,  indeed,   greatly  daring,  went 


A  Mad  Dog  189 

so  far  on  one  occasion  as  to  say  to  the  little 
man:  "And  d'yo'  reck'n  the  Killer  is  a  sheep- 
dog, M'Adam?" 

"I  do,"  the  little  man  replied  with  convic- 
tion. 

"And  that  he'll  spare  his  own  sheep?" 

"  Niver  a  doubt  of  it." 

"Then,"  said  the  smith  with  a  nervous 
cackle,  "  it  must  lie  between  you  and  Tupper 
and  Saunderson." 

The  little  man  leant  forward  and  tapped  the 
other  on  the  arm. 

"  Or  Kenmuir,  ma  friend, "  he  said.  "  Ye've 
forgot  Kenmuir." 

"  So  I  have,"  laughed  the  smith,  "  so  I  have." 

"Then  I'd  not  anither  time,"  the  other  con- 
tinued, still  tapping.  "I'd  mind  Kenmuir, 
d'ye  see,  Kirby?" 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  lambing- 
time,  when  the  Killer  was  working  his  worst, 
that  the  Dalesmen  had  a  lurid  glimpse  of 
Adam  M'Adam  as  he  might  be  were  he 
wounded  through  his  Wullie. 

Thus  it  came  about :  It  was  market-day  in 
Grammoch-town,  and  in  the  Border  Ram  old 
Rob  Saunderson  was  the  centre  of  interest. 
For  on  the  previous  night  Rob,  who  till  then 
had  escaped  unscathed,  had  lost  a  sheep  to  the 
Killer;  and — far  worse — his  flock  of  Herd- 
wicks,  heavy  in  lamb,  had  been  galloped  with 
disastrous  consequences. 


190  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

The  old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  was 
telling  how  on  four  nights  that  week  he  had 
been  up  with  Shep  to  guard  against  mishap ; 
and  on  the  fifth,  worn  out  with  his  double 
labor,  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  post.  But  a 
very  little  while  he  slumbered;  yet  when,  in 
the  dawn,  he  woke  and  hurried  on  his  rounds, 
he  quickly  came  upon  a  mangled  sheep  and  the 
pitiful  relic  of  his  flock.  A  relic,  indeed !  For 
all  about  were  cold  wee  lambkins  and  their 
mothers,  dead  and  dying  of  exhaustion  and  their 
unripe  travail — a  slaughter  of  the  innocents. 

The  Dalesmen  were  clustered  round  the 
old  shepherd,  listening  with  lowering  counte- 
nances, when  a  dark  gray  head  peered  in  at 
the  door  and  two  wistful  eyes  dwelt  for  a 
moment  on  the  speaker. 

"Talk  o'  the  devil!"  muttered  M'Adam,  but 
no  man  heard  him.  For  Red  Wull,  too,  had 
seen  that  sad  face,  and,  rising  from  his  mas- 
ter's feet,  had  leapt  with  a  roar  at  his  enemy, 
toppling  Jim  Mason  like  a  ninepin  in  the  fury 
of  his  charge. 

In  a  second  every  dog  in  the  room,  from  the 
battered  Venus  to  Tupper's  big  Rasper,  was 
on  his  feet,  bristling  to  have  at  the  tyrant  and 
wipe  out  past  injuries,  if  the  gray  dog  would 
but  lead  the  dance. 

It  was  not  to  be,  however.  For  Long  Kirby 
was  standing  at  the  door  with  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee  in  his  hand.  Barely  had  he  greeted  the 
gray  dog  with — 


A  Mad  Dog  191 

"'Ullo,  Owd  UnP  when  hoarse  yells  of 
"'Ware,  lad!  The  Terror!"  mingled  with 
Red  Wull's  roar. 

Half  turning,  he  saw  the  great  dog  bound- 
ing to  the  attack.  Straightway  he  flung  the 
boiling  contents  of  his  cup  full  in  that  rage- 
wracked  countenance.  The  burning  liquid 
swished  against  the  huge  bull-head.  Blind- 
ing, bubbling,  scalding,  it  did  its  fell  work 
well ;  nothing  escaped  that  merciless  torrent. 
With  a  cry  of  agony,  half  bellow,  half  howl, 
Red  Wull  checked  in  his  charge.  From 
without  the  door  was  banged  to  ;  and 
again  the  duel  was  postponed.  While  within 
the  tap-room  a  huddle  of  men  and  dogs  were 
left  alone  with  a  mad  man  and  a  madder 
brute. 

Blind,  demented,  agonized,  the  Tailless 
Tyke  thundered  about  the  little  room  gnash- 
ing, snapping,  oversetting;  men,  tables, 
chairs  swirled  off  their  legs  as  though  they 
had  been  dolls.  He  spun  round  like  a  mon- 
strous teetotum ;  he  banged  his  tortured  head 
against  the  wall;  he  burrowed  into  the  un- 
yielding floor.  And  all  the  while  M'Adam 
pattered  after  him,  laying  hands  upon  him 
only  to  be  flung  aside  as  a  terrier  flings  a  rat. 
Now  up,  now  down  again,  now  tossed  into  a 
corner,  now  dragged  upon  the  floor,  yet  always 
following  on  and  crying  in  supplicating  tones, 
"Wullie,  Wullie,  let  me  to  ye!  let  yer  man 
ease  ye !"  and  then,  with  a  scream  and  a  mur- 


192  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

derous  glance,  "By ,  Kirby,  I'll  deal  wi' 

you  later!" 

The  uproar  was  like  hell  let  loose.  You 
could  hear  the  noise  of  oaths  and  blows,  as  the 
men  fought  for  the  door,  a  half-mile  away. 
And  above  it  the  horrid  bellowing  and  the 
screaming  of  that  shrill  voice. 

Long  Kirby  was  the  first  man  out  of  that 
murder-hole ;  and  after  him  the  others  toppled 
one  by  one — men  and  dogs  jostling  one  an- 
other in  the  frenzy  of  their  fear.  Big  Bell, 
Londesley,  Tupper,  Hoppin,  Teddy  Bolstock, 
white-faced  and  trembling;  and  old  Saunder- 
son  they  pulled  out  by  his  heels.  Then  the 
door  was  shut  with  a  clang,  and  the  little  man 
and  mad  dog  were  left  alone. 

In  the  street  was  already  a  big-eyed  crowd, 
attracted  by  the  uproar;  while  at  the  door 
was  James  Moore,  seeking  entrance.  "  Hap- 
pen I  could  lend  the  little  mon  a  hand,"  said 
he ;  but  they  withheld  him  forcibly. 

Inside  was  pandemonium :  hangings  like  the 
doors  of  hell;  the  bellowing  of  that  great 
voice ;  the  patter  of  little  feet ;  the  slithering 
of  a  body  on  the  floor ;  and  always  that  shrill, 
beseeching  prayer,  "  Wullie,  Wullie,  let  me  to 

ye!"    and,  in  a  scream,  "By ,  Kirby,  111 

be  wi'  ye  soon !" 

Jim  Mason  it  was  who  turned,  at  length,  to 
the  smith  and  whispered,  "Kirby,  lad,  yo'd 
best  skip  it." 

The  big  man  obeyed  and  ran.     The  stamp, 


A  Mad  Dog  193 

stamp  of  his  feet  on  the  hard  road  rang  above 
the  turmoil.  As  the  long  legs  vanished  round 
the  corner  and  the  sound  of  the  fugitive  died 
away,  a  panic  seized  the  listening  crowd. 

A  woman  shrieked ;  a  girl  fainted ;  and  in 
two  minutes  the  street  was  as  naked  of  men  as 
the  steppes  of  Russia  in  winter :  here  a  white 
face  at  a  window;  there  a  door  ajar;  and 
peering  round  a  far  corner  a  frightened  boy. 
One  man  only  scorned  to  run.  Alone,  James 
Moore  stalked  down  the  centre  of  the  road, 
slow  and  calm,  Owd  Bob  trotting  at  his  heels. 

It  was  a  long  half -hour  before  the  door  of 
the  inn  burst  open,  and  M'Adam  came  out 
with  a  run,  flinging  the  door  behind  him. 

He  rushed  into  the  middle  of  the  road ;  his 
sleeves  were  rolled  at  the  wrist  like  a  sur- 
geon's; and  in  his  right  hand  was  a  black- 
handled  jack-knife. 

"  Noo,  by 1"  he  cried  in  a  terrible  voice, 

"where  is  he?" 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  darting 
his  fiery  glances  everywhere ;  and  his  face  was 
whiter  than  his  hair. 

Then  he  turned  and  hunted  madly  down 
the  whole  length  of  the  High,  nosing  like  a 
weasel  in  every  cranny,  stabbing  at  the  air  as 

he  went,  and  screaming,  "  By ,  Kirby,  wait 

till  I  get  ye  r 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HOW   THE   KILLER   WAS   SINGED 

No  further  harm  came  of  the  incident ;  but 
it  served  as  a  healthy  object-lesson  for  the 
Dalesmen. 

A  coincidence  it  may  have  been,  but,  as  a 
fact,  for  the  fortnight  succeeding  Kirby's  ex- 
ploit there  was  a  lull  in  the  crimes.  There 
followed,  as  though  to  make  amends,  the  seven 
days  still  remembered  in  the  Daleland  as  the 
Bloody  Week. 

On  the  Sunday  the  Squire  lost  a  Cheviot 
ewe,  killed  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
Manor  wall.  On  the  Monday  a  farm  on  the 
Black  Water  was  marked  with  the  red  cross. 
On  Tuesday — a  black  night — Tupper  at  Swins- 
thwaite  came  upon  the  murderer  at  his  work ; 
he  fired  into  the  darkness  without  effect;  and 
the  Killer  escaped  with  a  scaring.  On  the  fol- 
lowing night  Viscount  Birdsaye  lost  a  shearling 
ram,  for  which  he  was  reported  to  have  paid  a 
fabulous  sum.  Thursday  was  the  one  blank 
night  of  the  week.  On  Friday  Tupper  was 
again  visited  and  punished  heavily,  as  though 
in  revenge  for  that  shot. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon  a  big  meeting 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     195 

was  held  at  the  Manor  to  discuss  measures. 
The  Squire  presided;  gentlemen  and  magis- 
trates were  there  in  numbers,  and  every  farmer 
in  the  country-side. 

To  start  the  proceedings  the  Special  Com- 
missioner read  a  futile  letter  from  the  Board 
of  Agriculture.  After  him  Viscount  Birdsaye 
rose  and  proposed  that  a  reward  more  suitable 
to  the  seriousness  of  the  case  than  the  paltry 
£5  of  the  Police  should  be  offered,  and  backed 
his  proposal  with  a  £25  cheque.  Several  oth- 
ers spoke,  and,  last  of  all,  Parson  Leggy  rose. 

He  briefly  summarized  the  liistory  of  the 
crimes ;  reiterated  his  belief  that  a  shgep-dog 
was  the  criminal;  declared  that  nothing  had 
occurred  to  shake  his  conviction;  and  con- 
cluded by  offering  a  remedy  for  their  consider- 
ation. Simple  it  was,  so  he  said,  to  laughable- 
ness; yet,  if  their  surmise  was  correct,  it 
would  serve  as  an  effectual  preventive,  if  not 
cure,  and  would  at  least  give  them  time  to 
turn  round.     He  paused. 

4<  My  suggestion  is :  That  every  man-jack  of 
you  who  owns  a  sheep-dog  ties  him  up  at 
night." 

The  farmers  were  given  half  an  hour  to  con- 
sider the  proposal,  and  clustered  in  knots  talk- 
ing it  over.  Many  an  eye  was  directed  on 
M'Adam;  but  that  little  man  appeared  all 
unconscious. 

"  Weel,  Mr.  Saunderson,"  he  was  saying  in 
shrill  accents,  "and  shall  ye  tie  Shep?" 


196  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"What  d'yo'  think?"  asked  Rob,  eying  the 
man  at  whom  the  measure  was  aimed. 

"Why,  it's  this  way,  I'm  thinkin',"  the  lit- 
tle man  replied.  "Gin  ye  haud  Shep's  the 
guilty  one  I  wad,  by  all  manner  o'  means — or 
shootin'd  be  aiblins  better.  If  not,  why" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly ;  and  hav- 
ing shown  his  hand  and  driven  the  nail  well 
home,  the  little  man  left  the  meeting. 

James  Moore  stayed  to  see  the  Parson's 
resolution  negatived  by  a  large  majority,  and 
then  he  too  quitted  the  hall.  He  had  foreseen 
the  result,  and,  previous  to  the  meeting,  had 
warned  the  Parson  how  it  would  be. 

"Tie  up!"  he  cried  almost  indignantly,  as 
Owd  Bob  came  galloping  up  to  his  whistle ;  "  I 
think  I  see  myself  chainin'  yo',  owd  lad,  like 
ony  murderer.  Why,  it's  yo'  has  kept  the 
Killer  off  Kenmuir  so  far,  I'll  lay." 

At  the  lodge-gate  was  M'Adam,  for  once 
without  his  familiar  spirit,  playing  with  the 
lodge-keeper's  child;  for  the  little  man  loved 
all  children  but  his  own,  and  was  beloved  of 
them.  As  the  Master  approached  he  looked 
up. 

"Weel,  Moore,"  he  called,  "and  are  you 
gaein'  to  tie  yer  dog?" 

"I  will  if  you  will  yours,"  the  Master  an- 
swered grimly. 

"Na,"  the  little  man  replied,  "it's  Wullie 
as  frichts  the  Killer  aff  the  Grange.  That's 
why  I've  left  him  there  noo." 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     197 

"It's  the  same  wi'  me,"  the  Master  said. 
"  He's  not  come  to  Kenmuir  yet,  nor  he'll  not 
so  long  as  Th'  Owd  Un's  loose,  I  reck'n." 

"Loose  or  tied,  for  the  matter  o'  that,"  the 
little  man  rejoined,  "  Kenmuir'll  escape."  He 
made  the  statement  dogmatically,  snapping 
his  lips. 

The  Master  frowned. 

"Why  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Ha'  ye  no  heard  what  they're  sayin'  ?"  the 
little  man  inquired  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"Nay;  what?" 

"Why,  that  the  mere  repitation  o'  th'  best 
sheep-dog  in  the  North'  should  keep  him  aff. 
An'  I  guess  they're  reet,"  and  he  laughed 
shrilly  as  he  spoke. 

The  Master  passed  on,  puzzled. 

"Which  road  are  ye  gaein'  hame?"  M'Adam 
called  after  him.  "Because,"  with  a  polite 
smile,  "I'll  tak'  t'ither." 

"I'm  off  by  the  Windy  Brae,"  the  Master 
answered,  striding  on.  "Squire  asked  me  to 
leave  a  note  wi'  his  shepherd  t'other  side  o' 
the  Chair."  So  he  headed  away  to  the  left, 
making  for  home  by  the  route  along  the  Silver 
Mere. 

It  is  a  long  sweep  of  almost  unbroken  moor- 
land, the  well-called  Windy  Brae;  sloping 
gently  down  in  mile  on  mile  of  heather  from 
the  Mere  Marches  on  the  top  to  the  fringe  of 
the  Silver  Mere  below.  In  all  that  waste  of 
moor  the  only  break    is  the    quaint-shaped 


198  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Giant's  Chair,  puzzle  of  geologists,  looking  as 
though  plumped  down  by  accident  in  the 
heathery  wild.  The  ground  rises  suddenly 
from  the  uniform  grade  of  the  Brae;  up  it 
goes,  ever  growing  steeper,  until  at  length  it 
runs  abruptly  into  a  sheer  curtain  of  rock — the 
Fall — which  rises  perpendicular  some  forty 
feet,  on  the  top  of  which  rests  that  tiny  grassy 
bowl — not  twenty  yards  across — they  call  the 
Scoop. 

The  Scoop  forms  the  seat  of  the  Chair  and 
reposes  on  its  collar  of  rock,  cool  and  green 
and  out  of  the  world,  like  wine  in  a  metal  cup ; 
in  front  is  the  forty-foot  Fall;  behind,  rising 
sheer  again,  the  wall  of  rock  which  makes  the 
back  of  the  Chair.  Inaccessible  from  above, 
the  only  means  of  entrance  to  that  little  dell 
are  two  narrow  sheep-tracks,  which  crawl  dan- 
gerously up  between  the  sheer  wall  on  the  one 
hand  and  the  sheer  Fall  on  the  other,  entering 
it  at  opposite  sides.  ^v 

It  stands  out  clear-cut  from  the  gradual  in- 
cline, that  peculiar  eminence ;  yet  as  the  Mas- 
ter and  Owd  Bob  debouched  on  to  the  Brae  it 
was  already  invisible  in  the  darkening  night. 

Through  the  heather  the  two  swung,  the 
Master  thinking  now  with  a  smile  of  David 
and  Maggie;  wondering  what  M'Adam  had 
meant;  musing  with  a  frown  on  the  Killer; 
pondering  on  his  identity — for  he  was  half  of 
David's  opinion  as  to  Red  Willi's  innocence; 
and  thanking  his  stars  that  so  far  Kenmuir 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     199 

had  escaped,  a  piece  of  luck  he  attributed  en- 
tirely to  the  vigilance  of  Th'  Owd  Un,  who, 
sleeping  in  the  porch,  slipped  out  at  all  hours 
and  went  his  rounds,  warding  off  danger. 
And  at  the  thought  he  looked  down  for  the 
dark  head  which  should  be  travelling  at  his 
knee ;  yet  could  not  see  it,  so  thick  hung  the 
pall  of  night. 

So  he  brushed  his  way  along,  and  ever  the 
night  grew  blacker;  until,  from  the  swell  of 
the  ground  beneath  his  feet,  he  knew  himself 
skirting  the  Giant's  Chair. 

Now  as  he  sped  along  the  foot  of  the  rise, 
of  a  sudden  there  burst  on  his  ear  the  myriad 
patter  of  galloping  feet.  He  turned,  and  at 
the  second  a  swirl  of  sheep  almost  bore  him 
down.  It  was  velvet-black,  and  they  fled  furi- 
ously by,  yet  he  dimly  discovered,  driving  at 
their  trails,  a  vague  hound-like  form. 

"The  Killer,  by  thunder!"  he  ejaculated, 
and,  startled  though  he  was,  struck  down  at 
that  last  pursuing  shape,  to  miss  and  almost 
fall. 

"Bob,  lad!"  he  cried,  "follow  on!"  and 
swung  round ;  but  in  the  darkness  could  not 
see  if  the  gray  dog  had  obeyed. 

The  chase  swept  on  into  the  night,  and,  far 
above  him  on  the  hill-side,  he  could  now  hear 
the  rattle  of  the  flying  feet.  He  started  hotly 
in  pursuit,  and  then,  recognizing  the  futility 
of  following  where  he  could  not  see  his  hand, 
desisted.     So  he  stood    motionless,   listening 


200  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

and  peering  into  the  blackness,  hoping  Th' 
Owd  Un  was  on  the  villain's  heels. 

He  prayed  for  the  moon ;  and,  as  though  in 
answer,  the  lantern  of  the  night  shone  out  and 
lit  the  dour  face  of  the  Chair  above  him.  He 
shot  a  glance  at  his  feet ;  and  thanked  heav- 
en on  finding  the  gray  dog  was  not  beside 
him. 

Then  he  looked  up.  The  sheep  had  broken, 
and  were  scattered  over  the  steep  hill-side,  still 
galloping  madly.  In  the  rout  one  pair  of 
darting  figures  caught  and  held  his  gaze :  the 
foremost  dodging,  twisting,  speeding  upward ; 
the  hinder  hard  on  the  leader's  heels,  swift, 
remorseless,  never  changing.  He  looked  for 
a  third  pursuing  form ;  but  none  could  he  dis- 
cern. 

"He  mun  ha'  missed  him  in  the  dark,"  the 
Master  muttered,  the  sweat  standing  on  his 
brow,  as  he  strained  his  eyes  upward. 

Higher  and  higher  sped  those  two  dark 
specks,  far  out-topping  the  scattered  remnant 
of  the  flock.  Up  and  up,  until  of  a  sudden 
the  sheer  Fall  dropped  its  relentless  barrier  in 
the  path  of  the  fugitive.  Away,  scudding 
along  the  foot  of  the  rock- wall  struck  the 
familiar  track  leading  to  the  Scoop,  and  up  it, 
bleating  pitifully,  nigh  spent,  the  Killer  hard 
on  her  now. 

"He'll  doon  her  in  the  Scoop!"  cried  the 
Master  hoarsely,  following  with  fascinated 
eyes.     "Owd  Un!    Owd  Un!    wheer  iver  are 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     201 

yo'  gotten  to?"  he  called  in  agony;  but  no 
Owd  Un  made  reply. 

As  they  reached  the  summit,  just  as  he  had 
prophesied,  the  two  black  dots  were  one ;  and 
down  they  rolled  together  into  the  hollow  of 
the  Scoop,  out  of  the  Master's  ken.  At  the 
same  instant  the  moon,  as  though  loth  to 
watch  the  last  act  of  the  bloody  play,  veiled 
her  face. 

It  was  his  chance.  "Noo!" — and  up  the 
hillside  he  sped  like  a  young  man,  girding 
his  loins  for  the  struggle.  The  slope  grew 
steep  and  steeper ;  but  on  and  on  he  held  in  the 
darkness,  gasping  painfully,  yet  runniag  still, 
until  the  face  of  the  Fall  blocked  his  way  too. 

There  he  paused  a  moment,  and  whistled  a 
low  call.  Could  he  but  dispatch  the  old  dog 
up  the  one  path  to  the  Scoop,  while  he  took 
the  other,  the  murderer's  one  road  to  safety 
would  be  blocked. 

He  waited,  all  expectant ;  but  no  cold  muz- 
zle was  shoved  into  his  hand.  Again  he  whis- 
tled. A  pebble  from  above  almost  dropped  on 
him,  as  if  the  criminal  up  there  had  moved  to 
the  brink  of  the  Fall  to  listen ;  and  he  dared 
no  more. 

He  waited  till  all  was  still  again,  then  crept, 
cat-like,  along  the  rock-foot,  and  hit,  at  length, 
the  track  up  which  a  while  before  had  fled 
Killer  and  victim.  Up  that  ragged  way  he 
crawled  on  hands  and  knees.  The  perspira- 
tion rolled  off  his  face ;  one  elbow  brushed  the 


202  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

rock  perpetually ;  one  hand  plunged  ever  and 
anon  into  that  naked  emptiness  on  the  other 
side. 

He  prayed  that  the  moon  might  keep  in  but 
a  little  longer ;  that  his  feet  might  be  saved 
from  falling,  where  a  slip  might  well  mean 
death,  certain  destruction  to  any  chance  of 
success.  He  cursed  his  luck  that  Th'  Owd  Un 
had  somehow  missed  him  in  the  dark ;  for  now 
he  must  trust  to  chance,  his  own  great 
strength,  and  his  good  oak  stick.  And  as  he 
climbed,  he  laid  his  plan :  to  rush  in  on  the 
Killer  as  he  still  gorged  and  grapple  with 
him.  If  in  the  darkness  he  missed — and  in 
that  narrow  arena  the  contingency  was  im- 
probable— the  murderer  might  still,  in  the 
panic  of  the  moment,  forget  the  one  path  to 
safety  and  leap  over  the  Fall  to  his  destruc- 
tion. 

At  length  he  reached  the  summit  and  paused 
to  draw  breath.  The  black  void  before  him 
was  the  Scoop,  and  in  its  bosom — not  ten 
yards  away — must  be  lying  the  Killer  and  the 
killed. 

He  crouched  against  the  wet  rock-face  and 
listened.  In  that  dark  silence,  poised  'twixt 
heaven  and  earth,  he  seemed  a  million  miles 
apart  from  living  soul. 

No  sound,  and  yet  the  murderer  must 
be  there.  Ay,  there  was  the  tinkle  of  a  dis- 
lodged stone ;  and  again,  the  tread  of  stealthy 
feet. 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     203 

The  Killer  was  moving ;  alarmed ;  was  off. 

Quick ! 

He  rose  to  his  full  height;  gathered  him- 
self, and  leapt. 

Something  collided  with  him  as  he  sprang ; 
something  wrestled  madly  with  him;  some- 
thing wrenched  from  beneath  him ;  and  in  a 
clap  he  heard  the  thud  of  a  body  striking 
ground  far  below,  and  the  slithering  and  splat- 
tering of  some  creature  speeding  furiously 
down  the  hill-side  and  away. 

"Who  the  blazes?"  roared  he. 

"What  the  devil?"  screamed  a  little  voice. 

The  moon  shone  out.  ^ 

"Moore!" 

"M'Adam!" 

And  there  they  were  still  struggling  over 
the  body  of  a  dead  sheep. 

In  a  second  they  had  disengaged  and  rushed 
to  the  edge  of  the  Fall.  In  the  quiet  they 
could  still  hear  the  scrambling  hurry  of  the 
fugitive  far  below  them.  Nothing  was  to  be 
seen,  however,  save  an  array  of  startled  sheep 
on  the  hill-side,  mute  witnesses  of  the  mur- 
derer's escape. 

The  two  men  turned  and  eyed  each  other ; 
the  one  grim,  the  other  sardonic:  both  dis- 
hevelled and  suspicious. 

"Well?" 

"Weel?" 

A  pause,  and  careful  scrutiny. 

"There's  blood  on  your  coat." 


204  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"And  on  yours." 

Together  they  walked  back  into  the  little 
moon-lit  hollow.  There  lay  the  murdered 
sheep  in  a  pool  of  blood.  Plain  it  was  to  see 
whence  the  marks  on  their  coats  came. 
M'Adam  touched  the  victim's  head  with  his 
foot.  The  movement  exposed  its  throat. 
With  a  shudder  he  replaced  it  as  it  was. 

The  two  men  stood  back  and  eyed  one  an- 
other. 

"What  are  yo'  doin'  here?" 

"  After  the  Killer.     What  are  you?" 

"After  the  Killer." 

"  Hoo  did  you  come?" 

"Up  this  path,"  pointing  to  the  one  behind 
him.     "Hoo  did  you?" 

"Up  this." 

Silence;  then  again: 

"  I'd  ha'  had  him  but  for  yo'." 

"I  did  have  him,  but  ye  tore  me  afL" 

A  pause  again. 

"Where's  yer  gray  dog?"  This  time  the 
challenge  was  unmistakable. 

"  I  sent  him  after  the  Killer.  Wheer'syour 
Red  Willi?" 

"At  hame,  as  I  tell't  ye  before." 

"  Yo'  mean  yo'  left  him  there?" 

M'  Adam's  fingers  twitched. 

"He's  where  I  left  him." 

James  Moore  shrugged  his  shoulders.  And 
the  other  began  : 

"  When  did  yer  dog  leave  ye?" 


How  the  Killer  Was  Singed     205 

"When  the  Killer  came  past." 

"  Ye  wad  say  ye  missed  him  then  ?" 

"I  say  what  I  mean." 

"  Ye  say  he  went  after  the  Killer.  Noo  the 
Killer  was  here,"  pointing  to  the  dead  sheep. 
"Was  your  dog  here,  too?" 

"If  he  had  been  he'd  been  here  still." 

"Onless  he  went  over  the  Fall!" 

"That  was  the  Killer,  yo'  fule." 

"Or  your  dog." 

"There  was  only  one  beneath  me.  I  felt 
him." 

"  Just  so, "  said  M'  Adam,  and  laughed.     The 

other's  brow  contracted. 

to 

"An'  that  was  a  big  un,"  he  said  slowly. 
The  little  man  stopped  his  cackling. 

"There  ye  lie,"  he  said,  smoothly.  "He 
was  small." 

They  looked  one  another  full  in  the  eyes. 

"That's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  said  the  Mas- 
ter. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  the  other. 

The  two  stared  at  one  another,  silent  and 
stern,  each  trying  to  fathom  the  other's  soul; 
then  they  turned  again  to  the  brink  of  the 
Fall.  Beneath  them,  plain  to  see,  was  the 
splash  and  furrow  in  the  shingle  marking  the 
Killer's  line  of  retreat.  They  looked  at  one 
another  again,  and  then  each  departed  the 
way  he  had  come  to  give  his  version  of  the 
story. 

"We  mucked  itatween  us,"  said  the  Master. 


206  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"If  Th'  Owd  Un  had  kept  wi'  me,  I  should 
ha'  had  him." 

And— 

"  I  tell  ye  I  did  have  him,  but  James  Moore 
pulled  me  afT.  Strange,  too,  his  dog  not  bein' 
wi'  him!" 


CHAPTER   XIX 

LAD   AND    LASS 

An  immense  sensation  this  affair  of  the 
Scoop  created  in  the  Daleland.  It  spurred  the 
Dalesmen  into  fresh  endeavors.  James  Moore 
and  M'Adam  were  examined  and  re-examined 
as  to  the  minutest  details  of  the  matter.  The 
whole  country-side  was  placarded  with  huge 
bills  offering  ;£ioo  reward  for  the  capture  of 
the  criminal  dead  or  alive.  While  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  watchers  was  such  that  in  a  single 
week  they  bagged  a  donkey,  an  old  woman, 
and  two  amateur  detectives. 

In  Wastrel-dale  the  near  escape  of  the 
Killer,  the  collision  between  James  Moore  and 
M'  Adam,  and  Owd  Bob's  unsuccess,  who  was 
not  wont  to  fail,  aroused  intense  excitement, 
with  which  was  mingled  a  certain  anxiety  as  to 
their  favorite. 

For  when  the  Master  had  reached  home  that 
night,  he  had  found  the  old  dog  already  there ; 
and  he  must  have  wrenched  his  foot  in  the 
pursuit  or  run  a  thorn  into  it,  for  he  was  very 
lame.  Whereat,  when  it  was  reported  at  the 
Sylvester  Arms,  M'  Adam  winked  at  Red  Wull 
and  muttered,  "  Ah,  forty  foot  is  an  ugly  tum- 
ble." 


208  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

A  week  later  the  little  man  called  at  Ken- 
muir.  As  he  entered  the  yard,  David  was 
standing  outside  the  kitchen  window,  looking 
very  glum  and  miserable.  On  seeing  his 
father,  however,  the  boy  started  forward,  all 
alert. 

"What  d'yo'  want  here?"  he  cried  roughly. 

"Same  as  you,  dear  lad,"  the  little  man  gig- 
gled, advancing.     "  I  come  on  a  visit." 

"Your  visits  to  Kenmuir  are  usually  paid 
by  night,  so  I've  heard,"  David  sneered. 

The  little  man  affected  not  to  hear. 

"So  they  dinna  allow  ye  indoors  wi*  the 
Cup,"  he  laughed.  "They  know  yer  little 
ways  then,  David." 

"Nay,  I'm  not  wanted  in  there,"  David  an- 
swered bitterly,  but  not  so  loud  that  his  father 
could  hear.  Maggie  within  the  kitchen  heard, 
however,  but  paid  no  heed ;  for  her  heart  was 
hard  against  the  boy,  who  of  late,  though  he 
never  addressed  her,  had  made  himself  as 
unpleasant  in  a  thousand  little  ways  as  only 
David  M'Adam  could. 

At  that  moment  the  Master  came  stalking 
into  the  yard,  Owd  Bob  preceding  him ;  and 
as  the  old  dog  recognized  his  visitor  he  bristled 
involuntarily. 

At  the  sight  of  the  Master  M'Adam  hurried 
forward. 

"I  did  but  come  to  ask  after  the  tyke,"  he 
said.     "  Is  he  gettin'  over  his  lameness?" 

James   Moore  looked   surprised;    then   his 


Lad  and  Lass  209 

stern  face  relaxed  into  a  cordial  smile.  Such 
generous  anxiety  as  to  the  welfare  of  Red 
Wull's  rival  was  a  wholly  new  characteristic 
in  the  little  man. 

"I  tak'  it  kind  in  yo',  M'Adam,"  he  said, 
"to  come  and  inquire." 

"Is  the  thorn  oot?"  asked  the  little  man 
with  eager  interest,  shooting  his  head  forward 
to  stare  closely  at  the  other. 

"It  came  oot  last  night  wi'  the  poulticin'," 
the  Master  answered,  returning  the  other's 
gaze,  calm  and  steady. 

"I'm  glad  o'  that,"  said  the  little  man,  still 
staring.  But  his  yellow,  grinning  face  s*id  as 
plain  as  words,  "What  a  liar  ye  are,  James 
Moore." 

The  days  passed  on.  His  father's  taunts 
and  gibes,  always  becoming  more  bitter,  drove 
David  almost  to  distraction. 

He  longed  to  make  it  up  with  Maggie ;  he 
longed  for  that  tender  sympathy  which  the 
girl,  had  always  extended  to  him  when  his 
troubles  with  his  father  were  heavy  on  him. 
The  quarrel  had  lasted  for  months  now,  and 
he  was  well  weary  of  it,  and  utterly  ashamed. 
For,  at  least,  he  had  the  good  grace  to  ac- 
knowledge that  no  one  was  to  blame  but  him- 
self; and  that  it  had  been  fostered  solely  by 
his  ugly  pride. 

At  length  he  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and 
determined  to  go  to  the  girl  and  ask  forgive- 


210  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

ness.  It  would  be  a  bitter  ordeal  to  him ;  al- 
ways unwilling  to  acknowledge  a  fault,  even  to 
himself,  how  much  harder  would  it  be  to  con- 
fess it  to  this  strip  of  a  girl.  For  a  time  he 
thought  it  was  almost  more  than  he  could  do. 
Yet,  like  his  father,  once  set  upon  a  course, 
nothing  could  divert  him.  So,  after  a  week 
of  doubts  and  determinations,  of  cowardice 
and  courage,  he  pulled  himself  together  and 
off  he  set. 

An  hour  it  took  him  from  the  Grange  to  the 
bridge  over  the  Wastrel — an  hour  which  had 
wont  to  be  a  quarter.  Now,  as  he  walked  on 
up  the  slope  from  the  stream,  very  slowly, 
heartening  himself  for  his  penance,  he  was 
aware  of  a  strange  disturbance  in  the  yard 
above  him:  the  noisy  cackling  of  hens,  the 
snorting  of  pigs  disturbed,  and  above  the  rest 
the  cry  of  a  little  child  ringing  out  in  shrill 
distress. 

He  set  to  running,  and  sped  up  the  slope  as 
fast  as  his  long  legs  would  carry  him.  As  he 
took  the  gate  in  his  stride,  he  saw  the  white- 
clad  figure  of  Wee  Anne  fleeing  with  unsteady, 
toddling  steps,  her  fair  hair  streaming  out  be- 
hind, and  one  bare  arm  striking  wildly  back  at 
a  great  pursuing  sow. 

David  shouted  as  he  cleared  the  gate,  but 
the  brute  paid  no  heed,  and  was  almost  touch- 
ing the  fugitive  when  Owd  Bob  came  galloping 
round  the  corner,  and  in  a  second  had  flashed 
between  pursuer  and  pursued.     So  close  were 


Lad  and  Lass  2 1 1 

the  two  that  as  he  swung  round  on  the  startled 
sow,  his  tail  brushed  the  baby  to  the  ground ; 
and  there  she  lay  kicking  fat  legs  to  heaven 
and  calling  on  all  her  gods. 

David,  leaving  the  old  dog  to  secure  the 
warrior  pig,  ran  round  to  her ;  but  he  was  an- 
ticipated. The  whole  matter  had  barely  occu- 
pied a  minute's  time;  and  Maggie,  rushing 
from  the  kitchen,  now  had  the  child  in  her 
arms  and  was  hurrying  back  with  her  to  the 
house. 

"  Eh,  ma  pet,  are  yo'  hurted,  dearie?"  David 
could  hear  her  asking  tearfully,  as  he  crossed 
the  yard  and  established  himself  in  the  door. 

"Well,"  said  he,  in  bantering  tones,  "yo'm 
a  nice  wench  to  ha'  charge  o'  oor  Anne!" 

It  was  a  sore  subject  with  the  girl,  and  well 
he  knew  it.  Wee  Anne,  that  golden-haired 
imp  of  mischief,  was  forever  evading  her 
sister-mother's  eye  and  attempting  to  immo- 
late herself.  More  than  once  she  had  only 
been  saved  from  serious  hurt  by  the  watchful 
devotion  of  Owd  Bob,  who  always  found  time, 
despite  his  many  labors,  to  keep  a  guardian 
eye  on  his  well-loved  lassie.  In  the  previous 
winter  she  had  been  lost  on  a  bitter  night  on 
the  Muir  Pike ;  once  she  had  climbed  into  a 
field  with  the  Highland  bull,  and  barely  es- 
caped with  her  life,  while  the  gray  dog  held 
the  brute  in  check ;  but  a  little  while  before 
she  had  been  rescued  from  drowning  by  the 
Tailless  Tyke ;  there  had  been  numerous  other 


212  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

mischances;  and  now  the  present  mishap. 
But  the  girl  paid  no  heed  to  her  tormentor  in 
her  joy  at  finding  the  child  all  unhurt. 

"Theer!  yo'  bain't  so  much  as  scratted,  ma 
precious,  is  yo'?"  she  cried.  "Rinootagin, 
then,"  and  the  baby  toddled  joyfully  away. 

Maggie  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  with  face 
averted.  David's  eyes  dwelt  lovingly  upon 
her,  admiring  the  pose  of  the  neat  head  with 
its  thatch  of  pretty  brown  hair ;  the  slim  figure, 
and  slender  ankles,  peeping  modestly  from 
beneath  her  print  frock. 

"  Ma  word !  if  yo*  dad  should  hear  tell  o' 
hoo  his  Anne "  he  broke  off  into  a  long- 
drawn  whistle. 

Maggie  kept  silence ;  but  her  lips  quivered, 
and  the  flush  deepened  on  her  cheek. 

"I'm  fear'd  I'll  ha'  to  tell  him,"  the  boy 
continued.     "  'Tis  but  ma  duty." 

"  Yo'  may  tell  wham  yo'  like  what  yo'  like," 
the  girl  replied  coldly ;  yet  there  was  a  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

"  First  yo'  throws  her  in  the  stream,"  David 
went  on  remorselessly;  "then  yo'  chucks  her 
to  the  pig,  and  if  it  had  not  bin  for  me " 

"Yo',  indeed!"  she  broke  in  contemptu- 
ously. "Yo'!  'twas  Owd  Bob  reskied  her. 
Yo'd  nowt  to  do  wi'  it,  'cept  lookin'  on — 'bout 
what  yo're  fit  for." 

"I  tell  yo',"  David  pursued  stubbornly, 
"an*  it  had  not  bin  lor  me  yo'  wouldn't  have 
no  sister  by  noo.     She'd  be  lyin',  she  would, 


Lad  and  Lass  2 1  3 

pore  little  lass,  cold  as  ice,  pore  mite,  wi'  no 
breath  in  her.  An'  when  yo'  dad  coom  home 
there'd  be  no  Wee  Anne  to  rin  to  him,  and 
climb  on  his  knee,  and  yammer  to  him,  and 
beat  his  face.  An'  he'd  say,  *  What's  gotten 
to  oor  Annie,  as  I  left  wi'  yo'?'  And  then 
yo'd  have  to  tell  him,  'I  never  took  no  manner 
o'  fash  after  her,  dad;  d'reckly  yo'  back  was 
turned,  I '" 

The  girl  sat  down,  buried  her  face  in  her 
apron,  and  indulged  in  the  rare  luxury  of  tears. 

"  Yo're  the  cruellest  mon  as  iver  was,  David 
M'Adam,"  she  sobbed,  rocking  to  and  fro. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  tenderly 
bending  over  her. 

"  Eh,  Maggie,  but  I  am  sorry,  lass " 

She  wreifched  away  from  beneath  his  hands. 

"I  hate  yo',"  she  cried  passionately. 

He  gently  removed  her  hands  from  before 
her  tear-stained  face. 

"  I  was  nob'  but  laffin',  Maggie,"  he  pleaded ; 
"say  yo*  forgie  me." 

"I  don't,"  she  cried,  struggling.  "I  think 
yo're  the  hatefullest  lad  as  iver  lived." 

The  moment  was  critical ;  it  was  a  time  for 
heroic  measures. 

"No,  yo'  don%  lass,"  he  remonstrated; 
and,  releasing  her  wrists,  lifted  the  little 
drooping  face,  wet  as  it  was,  like  the  earth 
after  a  spring  shower,  and,  holding  it  between 
his  two  big  hands,  kissed  it  twice. 

"Yo*  coward!"    she  cried,  a  flood  of  warm 


214  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

red  crimsoning  her  cheeks ;  and  she  struggled 
vainly  to  be  free. 

"Yo'  used  to  let  me,"  he  reminded  her  in 
aggrieved  tones. 

"I  niver  did!"  she  cried,  more  indignant 
than  truthful. 

"Yes,  yo'  did,  when  we  was  little  uns;  that 
is,  yo*  was  alius  for  kissin'  and  I  was  alius 
agin  it.  And  noo,"  with  whole-souled  bitter- 
ness, "  I  mayn't  so  much  as  keek  at  yo'  over  a 
stone  wall." 

However  that  might  be,  he  was  keeking  at 
her  from  closer  range  now ;  and  in  that  posi- 
tion— for  he  held  her  firmly  still — she  could  not 
help  but  keek  back.  He  looked  so  handsome 
— humble  for  once ;  penitent  yet  reproachful ; 
his  own  eyes  a  little  moist;  and,  withal,  his 
old  audacious  self, — that,  despite  herself,  her 
anger  grew  less  hot. 

"Say  yo'  forgie  me  and  I'll  let  yo'  go." 

"I  don't,  nor  niver  shall,"  she  answered 
firmly;  but  there  was  less  conviction  in  her 
heart  than  voice. 

"  Iss  yo'  do,  lass,"  he  coaxed,  and  kissed  her 
again. 

She  struggled  faintly. 

"  Hoo  daur  yo'  ?"  she  cried  through  her 
tears.     But  he  was  not  to  be  moved. 

"Will  yo'  noo?"  he  asked. 

She  remained  dumb,  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

"Impidence!"  she  cried. 

"Ay,"  said  he,  closing  her  mouth. 


Lad  and  Lass  215 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  Davie  V  she  said,  surren- 
dering. 

After  that  Maggie  must  needs  give  in ;  and 
it  was  well  understood,  though  nothing  definite 
had  been  said,  that  the  boy  and  girl  were 
courting.  And  in  the  Dale  the  unanimous 
opinion  was  that  the  young  couple  would  make 
"a  gradely  pair,  surely." 

M'Adam  was  the  last  person  to  hear  the 
news,  long  after  it  had  been  common  knowl- 
edge in  the  village.  It  was  in  the  Sylvester 
Arms  he  first  heard  it,  and  straightway  fell 
into  one  of  those  foaming  frenzies  characteris- 
tic of  him. 

"  The  dochter  o'  Moore  o'  Kenmuir,  d'ye 
say?  sic  a  dochter  o'  sic  a  man!  The  dochter 
o'  th'  one  man  in  the  warld  that's  harmed  me 
aboon  the  rest!  I'd  no  ha'  believed  it  gin 
ye'd  no  tell't  me.  Oh,  David,  David!  I'd 
no  ha'  thocht  it  even  o'  you,  ill  son  as  ye've 
aye  bin  to  me.  I  think  he  might  ha'  waited 
till  his  auld  dad  was  gone,  and  he'd  no  had  to 
wait  lang  the  noo."  Then  the  little  man  sat 
down  and  burst  into  tears.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, he  resigned  himself,  and  the  more  read- 
ily when  he  realized  that  David  by  his  act  had 
exposed  a  fresh  wound  into  which  he  might 
plunge  his  barbed  shafts.  And  he  availed 
himself  to  the  full  of  his  new  opportunities. 
Often  and  often  David  was  sore  pressed  to  re- 
strain himself. 


2i 6  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Is't  true  what  they're  say  in'  that  Maggie 
Moore's  nae  better  than  she  should  be?"  the 
little  man  asked  one  evening  with  anxious  in- 
terest. 

"They're  not  savin'  so,  and  if  they  were 
'twad  be  a  lie,"  the  boy  answered  angrily. 

M'Adam  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  nodded 
his  head. 

"  Ay,  they  tell't  me  that  gin  ony  man  knew 
'twad  be  David  M'Adam." 

David  strode  across  the  room. 

"No,  no  mair  o'  that,"  he  shouted. 
"Y'ought  to  be  'shamed,  an  owd  mon  like 
you,  to  speak  so  o'  a  lass."  The  little  man 
edged  close  up  to  his  son,  and  looked  up  into 
the  fair  flushed  face  towering  above  him. 

"David,"  he  said  in  smooth  soft  tones, 
"I'm  'stonished  ye  dinna  strike  yer  auld  dad." 
He  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back  as  if  daring  the  young  giant  to  raise  a 
finger  against  him.  "Ye  maist  might  noo," 
he  continued  suavely.  "Ye  maun  be  sax 
inches  taller,  and  a  good  four  stane  heavier. 
Hooiver,  aiblins  ye 're  wise  to  wait.  Anither 
year  twa  I'll  be  an  auld  man,  as  ye  say,  and 
feebler,  and  Wullie  here'll  be  gettin'  on,  while 
you'll  be  in  the  prime  o'  yer  strength.  Then  I 
think  ye  might  hit  me  wi'  safety  to  your  per- 
son, and  honor  to  yourself." 

He  took  a  pace  back,  smiling. 

"Feyther,"  said  David,  huskily,  "one  day 
yo'll  drive  me  too  far." 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE   SNAPPING   OF  THE   STRING 

The  spring  was  passing,  marked  through- 
out with  the  bloody  trail  of  the  Killer.  The 
adventure  in  the  Scoop  scared  him  for  a  while 
into  innocuousness ;  then  he  resumed  his  game 
again  with  redoubled  zest.  It  seemed  likely 
he  would  harry  the  district  till  some  lucky 
accident  carried  him  off,  for  all  chance  there 
was  of  arresting  him. 

You  could  still  hear  nightly  in  the  Sylvester 
Arms  and  elsewhere  the  assertion,  delivered 
with  the  same  dogmatic  certainty  as  of  old, 
"It's  the  Terror,  I  tell  yoT  and  that  irrita- 
ting, inevitable  reply:  "Ay;  but  wheer's  the 
proof?"  While  often,  at  the  same  moment, 
in  a  house  not  far  away,  a  little  lonely  man 
was  sitting  before  a  low-burnt  fire,  rocking  to 
and  fro,  biting  his  nails,  and  muttering  to  the 
great  dog  whose  head  lay  between  his  knees : 
"  If  we  had  but  the  proof,  Wullie !  if  we  had 
but  the  proof!  I'd  give  ma  right  hand  aff  my 
arm  gin  we  had  the  proof  to-morrow." 

Long  Kirby,  who  was  always  for  war  when 
some  one  else  was  to  do  the  fighting,  suggested 
that  David  should  be  requested,  in  the  name 
of  the  Dalesmen,  to  tell  M'Adam  that  he  must 


21 8  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

make  an  end  to  Red  Wull.  But  Jim  Mason 
quashed  the  proposal,  remarking  truly  enough 
that  there  was  too  much  bad  blood  as  it  was 
between  father  and  son;  while  Tammas  pro- 
posed with  a  sneer  that  the  smith  should  be 
his  own  agent  in  the  matter. 

Whether  it  was  this  remark  of  Tammas 's 
which  stung  the  big  man  into  action,  or 
whether  it  was  that  the  intensity  of  his  hate 
gave  him  unusual  courage,  anyhow,  a  few  days 
later,  M'Adam  caught  him  lurking  in  the 
granary  of  the  Grange. 

The  little  man  may  not  have  guessed  his 
murderous  intent;  yet  the  blacksmith's  white- 
faced  terror,  as  he  crouched  away  in  the  dark- 
est corner,  could  hardly  have  escaped  remark ; 
though — and  Kirby  may  thank  his  stars  for  it 
— the  treacherous  gleam  of  a  gun-barrel,  ill- 
concealed  behind  him,  did. 

"Hullo,  Kirby!"  said  M'Adam  cordially, 
"ye '11  stay  the  night  wi'  me?"  And  the  next 
thing  the  big  man  heard  was  a  giggle  on  the 
far  side  the  door,  lost  in  the  clank  of  padlock 
and  rattle  of  chain.  Then — through  a  crack — 
"Good-night  to  ye.  Hope  ye'll  be  comfie." 
And  there  he  stayed  that  night,  the  following 
day  and  next  night — thirty-six  hours  in  all, 
with  swedes  for  his  hunger  and  the  dew  off 
the  thatch  for  his  thirst. 

Meanwhile  the  struggle  between  David  and 
his  father  seemed  coming  to  a  head.  The 
little  man's  tongue  wagged  more  bitterly  than 


The  Snapping  of  the  String      219 

ever ;  now  it  was  never  at  rest — searching  out 
sores,  stinging,  piercing. 

Worst  of  all,  he  was  continually  dropping 
innuendoes,  seemingly  innocent  enough,  yet 
with  a  world  of  subtile  meaning  at  their  back, 
respecting  Maggie.  The  leer  and  wink  with 
which,  when  David  came  home  from  Kenmuir 
at  nights,  he  would  ask  the  simple  question, 
"And  was  she  kind,  David — eh,  eh?"  made 
the  boy's  blood  boil  within  him. 

And  the  more  effective  the  little  man  saw 
his  shots  to  be,  the  more  persistently  he  plied 
them.  And  David  retaliated  in  kind.  It  was 
a  war  of  reprisals.  There  was  no  peace ;  there 
were  no  truces  in  which  to  bury  the  dead  be- 
fore the  opponents  set  to  slaying  others.  And 
every  day  brought  the  combatants  nearer  to 
that  final  struggle,  the  issue  of  which  neither 
cared  to  contemplate. 

There  came  a  Saturday,  toward  the  end  of 
the  spring,  long  to  be  remembered  by  more 
than  David  in  the  Dale. 

For  that  young  man  the  day  started  sensa- 
tionally. Rising  before  cock-crow,  and  going 
to  the  window,  the  first  thing  he  saw  in  the 
misty  dawn  was  the  gaunt,  gigantic  figure  of 
Red  Wull,  hounding  up  the  hill  from  the 
Stony  Bottom ;  and  in  an  instant  his  faith  was 
shaken  to  its  foundation. 

The  dog  was  travelling  up  at  a  long,  slouch- 
ing trot;    and  as  he  rapidly  approached  the 


220  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

house,  David  saw  that  his  flanks  were  all 
splashed  with  red  mud,  his  tongue  out,  and  the 
foam  dripping  from  his  jaws,  as  though  he  had 
come  far  and  fast. 

He  slunk  up  to  the  house,  leapt  on  to  the 
sill  of  the  unused  back-kitchen,  some  five  feet 
from  the  ground,  pushed  with  his  paw  at  the 
cranky  old  hatchment,  which  was  its  only  cov- 
ering; and,  in  a  second,  the  boy,  straining  out 
of  the  window  the  better  to  see,  heard  the  rat- 
tle of  the  boards  as  the  dog  dropped  within  the 
house. 

For  the  moment,  excited  as  he  was,  David 
held  his  peace.  Even  the  Black  Killer  took 
only  second  place  in  his  thoughts  that  morn- 
ing. For  this  was  to  be  a  momentous  day  for 
him. 

That  afternoon  James  Moore  and  Andrew 
would,  he  knew,  be  over  at  Grammoch-town, 
and,  his  work  finished  for  the  day,  he  was  re- 
solved to  tackle  Maggie  and  decide  his  fate. 
If  she  would  have  him — well,  he  would  go 
next  morning  and  thank  God  for  it,  kneeling 
beside  her  in  the  tiny  village  church ;  if  not, 
he  would  leave  the  Grange  and  all  its  unhap- 
piness  behind,  and  straightway  plunge  out  into 
the  world. 

All  through  a  week  of  stern  work  he  had 
looked  forward  to  this  hard-won  half-holiday. 
Therefore,  when,  as  he  was  breaking  off  at 
noon,  his  father  turned  to  him  and  said 
abruptly : 


The  Snapping  of  the  String      221 

"David,  ye're  to  tak'  the  Cheviot  lot  o'er 
to  Grammoch-town  at  once,"  he  answered 
shortly : 

"Yo'  mun  tak'  'em  yo'sel',  if  yo'  wish  'em 
to  go  to-day." 

"  Na,"  the  little  man  answered ;  "  Wullie  and 
me,  we're  busy.     Ye're  to  tak'  'em,  I  tell  ye." 

"  I'll  not,"  David  replied.  "  If  they  wait  for 
me,  they  wait  till  Monday,"  and  with  that  he 
left  the  room. 

"I  see  what  'tis,"  his  father  called  after 
him;  "she's  give  ye  a  tryst  at  Kenmuir.  Oh, 
ye  randy  David!" 

"  Yo'  tend  yo'  business;  I'll  tend  mine,"  the 
boy  answered  hotly. 

Now  it  happened  that  on  the  previous  day 
Maggie  had  given  him  a  photograph  of  her- 
self, or,  rather,  David  had  taken  it  and  Maggie 
had  demurred.  As  he  left  the  room  it  dropped 
from  his  pocket.  He  failed  to  notice  his 
loss,  but  directly  he  was  gone  M' Adam  pounced 
on  it. 

"He!  he!  Wullie,  what's  this?"  he  giggled, 
holding  the  photograph  into  his  face.  "He! 
he!  it's  the  jade  hersel',  I  war'nt;  it's  Jeze- 
bel!" 

He  peered  into  the  picture. 

"She  kens  what's  what,  I'll  tak'  oath,  Wul- 
lie. See  her  eyes — sae  saft  and  languishin' ; 
and  her  lips — such  lips,  Wullie!"  He  held 
the  picture  down  for  the  great  dog  to  see ;  then 
walked  out  of  the  room,  still  sniggering,  and 


222  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

chucking  the  face  insanely  beneath  its  card- 
board chin. 

Outside  the  house  he  collided  against  David. 
The  boy  had  missed  his  treasure  and  was 
hurrying  back  for  it. 

"What  yo'  got  theer?"  he  asked  suspi- 
ciously. 

"Only  the  pictur'  o'  some  randy  quean,"  his 
father  answered,  chucking  away  at  the  inani- 
mate chin. 

"Gie  it  me!"  David  ordered  fiercely.  "It's 
mine." 

"Na,  na,"  the  little  man  replied.  "It's  no 
for  sic  douce  lads  as  dear  David  to  ha'  ony 
touch  wi'  leddies  sic  as  this." 

"  Gie  it  me,  I  tell  ye,  or  I'll  tak'  it!"  the  boy 
shouted. 

"  Na,  na ;  it's  ma  duty  as  yer  dad  to  keep  ye 
from  sic  limmers."  He  turned,  still  smiling, 
to  Red  Wull. 

"There  ye  are,  Wullie!"  He  threw  the 
photograph  to  the  dog.  "Tear  her,  Wullie, 
the  Jezebel!" 

The  Tailless  Tyke  sprang  on  the  picture, 
placed  one  big  paw  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
face,  forcing  it  into  the  muck,  and  tore  a  cor- 
ner off;  then  he  chewed  the  scrap  with  unc- 
tuous, slobbering  gluttony,  dropped  it,  and 
tore  a  fresh  piece. 

David  dashed  forward. 

"Touch  it,  if  ye  daur,  ye  brute!"  he  yelled; 
but  his  father  seized  him  and  held  him  back. 


The  Snapping  of  the  String     223 

45  *  And  the  dogs  o'  the  street,'  "  he  quoted. 

David  turned  furiously  on  him. 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  brak'  ivery  bone  in  yer 
body!"  he  shouted,  "robbin'  me  o'  what's 
mine  and  throwin'  it  to  yon  black  brute!" 

"Whist,  David,  whist!"  soothed  the  little 
man.  "  'Twas  but  for  yer  ain  good  yer  auld 
dad  did  it.  'Twas  that  he  had  at  heart  as  he 
aye  has.  Rin  aff  wi'  ye  noo  to  Kenmuir. 
She'll  mak'  it  up  to  ye,  I  war'nt.  She's  leeb- 
eral  wi'  her  favors,  I  hear.  Ye've  but  to 
whistle  and  she'll  come." 

David  seized  his  father  by  the  shoulder. 

"  An'  yo'  gie  me  much  more  o'  your  sauce," 
he  roared. 

"Sauce,  Wullie,"  the  little  man  echoed  in 
gentle  voice. 

"I'll  twist  yer  neck  for  yo' !" 

"  He'll  twist  my  neck  for  me." 

"I'll  gang  reet  awa',  I  warn  yo',  and  leave 
you  and  yer  Wullie  to  yer  lone." 

The  little  man  began  to  whimper. 

"It'll  brak'  yer  auld  dad's  heart,  lad,"  he 
said. 

"  Nay;  yo've  got  none.  But  'twill  ruin  yo', 
please  God.  For  yo'  and  yer  Wullie '11  get 
ne'er  a  soul  to  work  for  yo' — yo'  cheeseparin', 
dirty-tongued  Jew." 

The  little  man  burst  into  an  agony  of  af- 
fected tears,  rocking  to  and  fro,  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

"Waesucks,  Wullie!   d'ye  hear  him?     He's 


224  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

gaein'  to  leave  us — the  son  o'  my  bosom!    my 
Benjamin!  my  little  Davie!  he's  gaein'  awa' !" 

David  turned  away  down  the  hill;  and 
M'Adam  lifted  his  stricken  face  and  waved  a 
hand  at  him. 

"'Adieu,  dear  amiable  youth!'"  he  cried  in 
broken  voice ;  and  straightway  set  to  sobbing 
again. 

Half-way  down  to  the  Stony  Bottom  David 
turned. 

"I'll  gie  yo'  a  word  o'  warnin',"  he  shouted 
back.  "  I'd  advise  yo'  to  keep  a  closer  eye  to 
yer  Wullie's  goings  on,  'specially  o'  nights,  or 
happen  yo'll  wake  to  a  surprise  one  mornin'." 

In  an  instant  the  little  man  ceased  his  fooling. 

"And  why  that?"  he  asked,  following  down 
the  hill. 

"I'll  tell  yo'.  When  I  wak'  this  mornin'  I 
walked  to  the  window,  and  what  d'yo'  think  I 
see?  Why,  your  Wullie  gollopin'  like  a  good 
un  up  from  the  Bottom,  all  foamin',  too,  and 
red-splashed,  as  if  he'd  coom  from  the  Screes. 
What  had  he  bin  up  to,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"What  should  he  be  doin',"  the  little  man 
replied,  "but  havin'  an  eye  to  the  stock?   and 
that  when  the  Killer  might  be  oot." 
David  laughed  harshly. 

"Ay,  the  Killer  was  oot,  I'll  go  bail,  and  yo* 
may  hear  o't  afore  the  evenin',  ma  man,"  and 
with  that  he  turned  away  again. 

As  he  had  foreseen,   David  found   Maggie 


The  Snapping  of  the  String      225 

alone.  But  in  the  heat  of  his  indignation 
against  his  father  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
his  original  intent,  and  instead  poured  his 
latest  troubles  into  the  girl's  sympathetic  ear. 

"  There's  but  one  mon  in  the  world  he  wishes 
worse  nor  me,"  he  was  saying.  It  was  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  he  was  still  inveighing 
against  his  father  and  his  fate.  Maggie  sat  in 
her  father's  chair  by  the  fire,  knitting;  while 
he  lounged  on  the  kitchen  table,  swinging  his 
long  legs. 

"And  who  may  that  be?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Why,  Mr.  Moore,  to  be  sure,  and  Th'  Owd 
Un,  too.  He'd  do  either  o'  them  a  mischief  if 
he  could." 

"But  why,  David?"  she  asked  anxiously. 
"  I'm  sure  dad  niver  hurt  him,  or  ony  ither  mon 
for  the  matter  o'  that." 

David  nodded  toward  the  Dale  Cup  which 
rested  on  the  mantelpiece  in  silvery  majesty. 

"It's  yon  done  it,"  he  said.  "And  if  Th' 
Owd  Un  wins  agin,  as  win  he  will,  bless  him ! 
why,  look  out  for  'me  and  ma  Wullie';  that's 
all." 

Maggie  shuddered,  and  thought  of  the  face 
at  the  window. 

"'Me  and  ma  Wullie,'"  David  continued; 
"I've  had  about  as  much  of  them  as  I  can 
swaller.  It's  aye  the  same — 'Me  and  ma  Wul- 
lie, '  and  '  Wullie  and  me, '  as  if  I  never  put  ma 
hand  to  a  stroke!  Ugh!" — he  made  a  gesture 
of  passionate  disgust — "the  two  on  'em  fair 


226  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

madden  me.  I  could  strike  the  one  and  throt- 
tle t'other,"  and  he  rattled  his  heels  angrily 
together. 

"Hush,  David,"  interposed  the  girl;  "yo* 
munna  speak  so  o'  your  dad;  it's  agin  the 
commandments. " 

"'Tain't  agin  human  nature,"  he  snapped  in 
answer.  "Why,  'twas  nob'  but  yester'  morn' 
he  says  in  his  nasty  way,  'David,  ma  gran' 
fellow,  hoo  ye  work !  ye  'stonish  me !'  And  on 
ma  word,  Maggie" — there  were  tears  in  the 
great  boy's  eyes — "ma  back  was  nigh  broke 
wi'  toilin'.  And  the  Terror,  he  stands  by  and 
shows  his  teeth,  and  looks  at  me  as  much  as 
to  say,  'Some  day,  by  the  grace  o'  goodness, 
I'll  ha'  my  teeth  in  your  throat,  young  mon.'" 

Maggie's  knitting  dropped  into  her  lap  and 
she  looked  up,  her  soft  eyes  for  once  flashing. 

"It's  cruel,  David;  so  'tis!"  she  cried.  "I 
wonder  yo'  bide  wi'  him.  If  he  treated  me  so, 
I'd  no  stay  anither  minute.  If  it  meant  the 
House  for  me  I'd  go,"  and  she  looked  as  if  she 
meant  it. 

David  jumped  off  the  table. 

"Han'  yo'  niver  guessed  why  I  stop,  lass, 
and  me  so  happy  at  home?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

Maggie's  eyes  dropped  again. 

"Hoo  should  I  know?"  she  asked  innocently. 

"Nor  care,  neither,  I  s'pose,"  he  said  in  re- 
proachful accents.  "  Yo'  want  me  to  go  and 
leave  yo',  and  go  reet  awa' ;  I  see  hoo  'tis.  Yo' 
wouldna  mind,  not  yo',  if  yo'  was  niver  to  see 


The  Snapping  of  the  String     227 

pore  David  agin.  I  niver  thowt  yo'  welly 
liked  me,  Maggie;  and  noo  I  know  it." 

"  Yo'  silly  lad,"  the  girl  murmured,  knitting 
steadfastly. 

"Then  yo'  do,"  he  cried,  triumphant.  "I 
knew  yo'  did."  He  approached  close  to  her 
chair,  his  face  clouded  with  eager  anxiety. 

"But  d'yo'  like  me  more'n  just  likin\  Mag- 
gie? d'yo',"  he  bent  and  whispered  in  the  lit- 
tle ear. 

The  girl  cuddled  over  her  work  so  that  he 
could  not  see  her  face. 

"  If  yo*  won't  tell  me  yo'  can  show  me,"  he 
coaxed.    "  There's  other  things  besides  words. " 

He  stood  before  her,  one  hand  on  the  chair- 
back  on  either  side.  She  sat  thus,  caged 
between  his  arms,  with  drooping  eyes  and 
heightened  color. 

"Not  so  close,  Davie,  please,"  she  begged, 
fidgeting  uneasily;  but  the  request  was  un- 
heeded. 

"  Do'ee  move  away  a  wee,"  she  implored. 

"  Not  till  yo've  showed  me,"  he  said,  relent- 
less. 

"I  canna,  Davie,"  she  cried  with  laughing 
petulance. 

"Yes,  yo'  can,  lass." 

"Tak'  your  hands  away,  then." 

"Nay;  not  till  yo've  showed  me." 

A  pause. 

"Do'ee,  Davie,"  she  supplicated. 

And— 


228  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Do'ee,"  he  pleaded. 

She  tilted  her  face  provokingly,  but  her  eyes 
were  still  down. 

"It's  no  manner  o'  use,  Davie." 

"Iss,  'tis,"  he  coaxed. 

"Niver." 

"Please." 

A  lengthy  pause. 

"  Well,  then "     She  looked  up,  at  last, 

shy,  trustful,  happy ;  and  the  sweet  lips  were 
tilted  further  to  meet  his. 

And  thus  they  were  situated,  lover-like, 
when  a  low,  rapt  voice  broke  in  on  them, — 

"'A  dear-lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 
A  treacherous  inclination. ' 

Oh,  Wullie,  I  wush  you  were  here!" 
,    It  was  little  M'Adam.     He  was  leaning  in 
at   the   open    window,   leering   at   the   young 
couple,  his  eyes  puckered,  an  evil  expression 
on  his  face. 

"The  creetical  moment!  and  I  interfere! 
David,  ye '11  never  forgie  me." 

The  boy  jumped  round  with  an  oath ;  and 
Maggie,  her  face  flaming,  started  to  her  feet. 
The  tone,  the  words,  the  look  of  the  little  man 
at  the  window  were  alike  insufferable. 

"By  thunder!  I'll  teach  yo'  to  come  spyin* 
on  me!"  roared  David.  Above  him  on  the 
mantel-piece  blazed  the  Shepherds'  Trophy. 
Searching  any  missile  in  his  fury,  he  reached 
up  a  hand  for  it. 


The  Snapping  of  the  String     229 

"Ay,  gie  it  me  back.  Ye  robbed  me  o't," 
the  little  man  cried,  holding  out  his  arms  as  if 
to  receive  it. 

"Dinna,  David,"  pleaded  Maggie,  with  re- 
straining hand  on  her  lover's  arm. 

"By  the  Lord!  I'll  give  him  something!" 
yelled  the  boy.  Close  by  there  stood  a  pail  of 
soapy  water.  He  seized  it,  swung  it,  and 
slashed  its  contents  at  the  leering  face  in  the 
window. 

The  little  man  started  back,  but  the  dirty 
torrent  caught  him  and  soused  him  through. 
The  bucket  followed,  struck  him  full  on  the 
chest,  and  rolled  him  over  in  the  mud.  After 
it  with  a  rush  came  David. 

"  I'll  let  yo'  know,  spyin'  on  me !"  he  yelled. 

"I'll "  Maggie,  whose  face  was  as  white 

now  as  it  had  been  crimson,  clung  to  him, 
hampering  him. 

"Dinna,  David,  dinna!"  she  implored. 
"  He's  yerain  dad." 

"I'll  dad  him!  I'll  learn  him!"  roared 
David  half  through  the  window. 

At  the  moment  Sam'l  Todd  came  flounder- 
ing furiously  round  the  corner,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  'Enry  and  oor  Job. 

"Is  he  dead?"  shouted  Sam'l,  seeing  the 
prostrate  form. 

"Ho!  ho!"  went  the  other  two. 

They  picked  up  the  draggled  little  man  and 
hustled  him  out  of  the  yard  like  a  thief,  a  man 
on  either  side  and  a  man  behind. 


230  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

As  they  forced  him  through  the  gate,  he 
struggled  round. 

"  By  Him  that  made  ye !  ye  shall  pay  for 
this,  David  M'Adam,  you  and  yer " 

But  SamTs  big  hand  descended  on  his 
mouth,  and  he  was  borne  away  before  that  last 
ill  word  had  flitted  into  being. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HORROR  OF   DARKNESS 

It  was  long  past  dark  that  night  when 
M'Adam  staggered  home. 

All  that  evening  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  his 
imprecations  against  David  had  made  even  the 
hardest  shudder.  James  Moore,  Owd  Bob, 
and  the  Dale  Cup  were  for  once  forgotten  as, 
in  his  passion,  he  cursed  his  son. 

The  Dalesmen  gathered  fearfully  away  from 
the  little  dripping  madman.  For  once  these 
men,  whom,  as  a  rule,  no  such  geyser  out- 
bursts could  quell,  were  dumb  before  him ;  only 
now  and  then  shooting  furtive  glances  in  his 
direction,  as  though  on  the  brink  of  some  daring 
enterprise  of  which  he  was  the  objective.  But 
M'Adam  noticed  nothing,  suspected  nothing. 

When,  at  length,  he  lurched  into  the  kitchen 
of  the  Grange,  there  was  no  light  and  the  fire 
burnt  low.  So  dark  was  the  room  that  a  white 
riband  of  paper  pinned  onto  the  table  escaped 
his  remark. 

The  little  man  sat  down  heavily,  his  clothes 
still  sodden,  and  resumed  his  tireless  anathema. 

"I've  tholed  mair  fra  him,  Wullie,  than 
Adam  M'Adam  ever  thocht  to  thole  from  ony 
man.     And  noo  it's  gane  past  bearin'.     He 


232  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

struck  me,  Wullie !  struck  his  ain  father.  Ye 
see  it  yersel',  Wullie.  Na,  ye  werena  there. 
Oh,  gin  ye  had  but  bin,  Wullie !  Him  and  his 
madam !  But  I'll  gar  him  ken  Adam  M'  Adam. 
I'll  stan'  nae  mair!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  reaching  up  with 
trembling  hands,  pulled  down  the  old  bell- 
mouthed  blunderbuss  that  hung  above  the 
mantel-piece. 

"We'll  mak'  an  end  to't,  Wullie,  so  we  will, 
aince  and  for  a' !"  And  he  banged  the  weapon 
down  upon  the  table.  It  lay  right  athwart  that 
slip  of  still  condemning  paper,  yet  the  little 
man  saw  it  not. 

Resuming  his  seat,  he  prepared  to  ^wait. 
His  hand  sought  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
fingered  tenderly  a  small  stone  bottle,  the  fond 
companion  of  his  widowhood.  He  pulled  it 
out,  uncorked  it,  and  took  a  long  pull;  then 
placed  it  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

Gradually  the  gray  head  lolled ;  the  shriv- 
elled hand  dropped  and  hung  limply  down,  the 
finger-tips  brushing  the  floor ;  and  he  dozed  off 
into  a  heavy  sleep,  while  Red  Wull  watched  at 
his  feet. 

It  was  not  till  an  hour  later  that  David  re- 
turned home. 

As  he  approached  the  lightless  house,  stand- 
ing in  the  darkness  like  a  body  with  the  spirit 
fled,  he  could  but  contrast  this  dreary  home  of 
his  with  the  bright  kitchen  and  cheery  faces 
he  had  left. 


Horror  of  Darkness  233 

Entering  the  house,  he  groped  to  the  kitchen 
door  and  opened  it ;  then  struck  a  match  and 
stood  in  the  doorway  peering  in. 

"Not  home,  bain't  he?"  he  muttered,  the 
tiny  light  above  his  head.  "  Wet  inside  as 
well  as  oot  by  noo,  I'll  lay.  By  gum!  but 
'twas  a  lucky  thing  for  him  I  didna  get  ma 
hand  on  him  this  evenin'.  I  could  ha'  killed 
him."     He  held  the  match  above  his  head. 

Two  yellow  eyes,  glowing  in  the  darkness 
like  cairngorms,  and  a  small  dim  figure 
bunched  up  in  a  chair,  told  him  his  surmise 
was  wrong.  Many  a  time  had  he  seen  his 
father  in  such  case  before,  and  now  he  mut- 
tered contemptuously: 

"Drunk;  the  leetle  swab!  Sleepin*  it  off,  I 
reck'n." 

Then  he  saw  his  mistake.  The  hand  that 
hung  above  the  floor  twitched  and  was  still 
again. 

There  was  a  clammy  silence.  A  mouse, 
emboldened  by  the  quiet,  scuttled  across  the 
hearth.  One  mighty  paw  lightly  moved;  a 
lightning  tap,  and  the  tiny  beast  lay  dead. 

Again  that  hollow  stillness:  no  sound,  no 
movement;  only  those  two  unwinking  eyes 
fixed  on  him  immovable. 

At  length  a  small  voice  from  the  fireside 
broke  the  quiet. 

"  Drunk— the— leetle— swab !" 

Again  a  clammy  silence,  and  a  life-long 
pause. 


234  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"I  thowt  yo'  was  sleepin',"  said  David,  at 
length,  lamely. 

"  Ay,  so  ye  said.  '  Sleepin  '  it  afF ;  I  heard 
ye."  Then,  still  in  the  same  small  voice,  now 
quivering  imperceptibly,  "Wad  ye  obleege 
me,  sir,  by  leetin'  the  lamp?  Or,  d'ye  think, 
Wullie,  'twad  be  soilin'  his  dainty  fingers? 
They're  mair  used,  I'm  told,  to  danderin'  wi' 
the  bonnie  brown  hair  o'  his " 

"I'll  not  ha'  ye  talk  o'  ma  Maggie  so,"  in- 
terposed the  boy  passionately. 

"His  Maggie,  mark  ye,  Wullie — his!  I 
thocht  'twad  soon  get  that  far." 

"  Tak'  care,  dad !  I'll  stan'  but  little  more," 
the  boy  warned  him  in  choking  voice;  and 
began  to  trim  the  lamp  with  trembling 
fingers. 

M'Adam  forthwith  addressed  himself  to  Red 
Wull. 

"I  suppose  no  man  iver  had  sic  a  son  as 
him,  Wullie.  Ye  ken  what  I've  done  for  him, 
an'  ye  ken  hoo  he's  repaid  it.  He's  set  him- 
sel'  agin  me;  he's  misca'd  me;  he's  robbed 
me  o'  ma  Cup;  last  of  all,  he  struck  me — 
struck  me  afore  them  a'.  We've  toiled  for 
him,  you  and  I,  Wullie;  we've  slaved  to  keep 
him  in  hoose  an'  hame,  an'  he's  passed  his 
time,  the  while,  in  riotous  leevin',  carousin'  at 

Kenmuir,  amusin'  himsel'  wi'  his "     He 

broke  off  short.  The  lamp  was  lit,  and  the 
strip  of  paper,  pinned  on  to  the  table,  naked 
and  glaring,  caught  his  eye. 


Horror  of  Darkness  235 

"What's  this?"   he  muttered;   and  unloosed 
the  nail  that  clamped  it  down. 
This  is  what  he  read : 

"Adam  Mackadam  yer  warned  to  mak'  an 
end  to  yer  Red  Wull  will  be  best  for  him  and 
the  Sheep.  This  is  the  first  yoll  have  two 
more  the  third  will  be  the  last     -*-" 

It  was  written  in  pencil,  and  the  only  sig- 
nature was  a  dagger,  rudely  limned  in  red. 

M'Adam  read  the  paper  once,  twice,  thrice. 
As  he  slowly  assimilated  its  meaning,  the 
blood  faded  from  his  face.  He  stared  at  it  and 
still  stared,  with  whitening  face  and  pursed 
lips.  Then  he  stole  a  glance  at  David's  broad 
back. 

"What  d'ye  ken  o'  this,  David?"  he  asked, 
at  length,  in  a  dry  thin  voice,  reaching  for- 
ward in  his  chair. 

"O'  what?" 

"O'  this,"  holding  up  the  slip.  "And  ye'd 
obleege  me  by  the  truth  for  once." 

David  turned,  took  up  the  paper,  read  it, 
and  laughed  harshly. 

"It's  coom  to  this,  has  it?"  he  said,  still 
laughing,  and  yet  with  blanching  face. 

"Ye  ken  what  it  means.  I  daresay  ye  pit 
it  there;  aiblins  writ  it.  Ye'll  explain  it." 
The  little  man  spoke  in  the  same  small,  even 
voice,  and  his  eyes  never  moved  off  his  son's 
face. 

"It's  plain  as  day.     Ha'  ye  no  heard?" 


236  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

"I've  heard  naethin'.  .  .  .  I'd  like  the 
truth,  David,  if  ye  can  tell  it." 

The  boy  smiled  a  forced,  unnatural  smile, 
looking  from  his  father  to  the  paper  in  his 
hand. 

"  Yo'  shall  have  it,  but  yo'll  not  like  it.  It's 
this:  Tupper  lost  a  sheep  to  the  Killer  last 
night/' 

"  And  what  if  he  did?"  The  little  man  rose 
smoothly  to  his  feet.  Each  noticed  the  other's 
face — dead- white. 

"Why,  he— lost— it— on Wheer  d'yo' 

think?"  He  drawled  the  words  out,  dwelling 
almost  lovingly  on  each. 

"Where?" 

"  On— the— Red— Screes." 

The  crash  was  coming  —  inevitable  now. 
David  knew  it,  knew  that  nothing  could  avert 
it,  and  braced  himself  to  meet  it.  The  smile 
had  fled  from  his  face,  and  his  breath  fluttered 
in  his  throat  like  the  wind  before  a  thunder- 
storm. 

"What  of  it?"  The  little  man's  voice  was 
calm  as  a  summer  sea. 

"  Why,  your  Wullie — as  I  told  yo' — was  on 
the  Screes  last  night." 

"Goon,  David." 

"And  this,"  holding  up  the  paper,  "tells 
you  that  they  ken,  as  I  ken  noo,  as  maist  o' 
them  ha'  kent  this  mony  a  day,  that  your 
Wullie,  Red  Wull— the  Terror " 

"Goon." 


Horror  of   Darkness  237 


"Is- 


"Yes." 

"The  Black  Killer." 

It  was  spoken. 

The  frayed  string  was  snapped  at  last. 
The  little  man's  hand  flashed  to  the  bottle  that 
stood  before  him. 

"Ye — liar!"  he  shrieked,  and  threw  it  with 
all  his  strength  at  the  boy's  head.  David 
dodged  and  ducked,  and  the  bottle  hurtled 
over  his  shoulder. 

Crash !  it  whizzed  into  the  lamp  behind,  and 
broke  on  the  wall  beyond,  its  contents  trickling 
down  the  wall  to  the  floor. 

For  a  moment,  darkness.  Then  the  spirits 
met  the  lamp's  smouldering  wick  and  blazed 
into  flame. 

By  the  sudden  light  David  saw  his  father  on 
the  far  side  the  table,  pointing  with  crooked 
forefinger.  By  his  side  Red  Wull  was  stand- 
ing alert,  hackles  up,  yellow  fangs  bared,  eyes 
lurid ;  and,  at  his  feet,  the  wee  brown  mouse 
lay  still  and  lifeless. 

"  Oot  o'  ma  hoose !  Back  to  Kenmuir !  Back 
to  yer "  The  unpardonable  word,  unmis- 
takable, hovered  for  a  second  on  his  lips  like 
some  foul  bubble,  and  never  burst. 

" No  mither  this  time!"  panted  David,  rac- 
ing round  the  table. 

"Wullie!" 

The  Terror  leapt  to  the  attack ;  but  David 
overturned  the  table  as  he  ran,  the  blunderbuss 


238  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

crashing  to  the  floor ;  it  fell,  opposing  a  mo- 
mentary barrier  in  the  dog's  path. 

"Stan*    off,    ye !"    screeched   the   little 

man,  seizing  a  chair  in  both  hands;  "stan*  off, 
or  I'll  brain  ye!" 

But  David  was  on  him. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  tome!" 

Again  the  Terror  came  with  a  roar  like  the 
sea.  But  David,  with  a  mighty  kick  catching 
him  full  on  the  jaw,  repelled  the  attack. 

Then  he  gripped  his  father  round  the  waist 
and  lifted  him  from  the  ground.  The  little 
man,  struggling  in  those  iron  arms,  screamed, 
cursed,  and  battered  at  the  face  above  him, 
kicking  and  biting  in  his  frenzy. 

"The  Killer!  wad  ye  ken  wha's  the  Killer? 
Go  and  ask  'em  at  Kenmuir !     Ask  yer " 

David  swayed  slightly,  crushing  the  body  in 
his  arms  till  it  seemed  every  rib  must  break ; 
then  hurled  it  from  him  with  all  the  might  of 
passion.  The  little  man  fell  with  a  crash  and 
a  groan. 

The  blaze  in  the  corner  flared,  flickered,  and 
died.  There  was  hell-black  darkness,  t  and 
silence  of  the  dead. 

David  stood  against  the  wall,  panting,  every 
nerve  tightstrung  as  the  hawser  of  a  straining 
ship. 

In  the  corner  lay  the  body  of  his  father,  limp 
and  still;  and  in  the  room  one  other  living 
thing  was  moving. 

He  clung  close  to  the  wall,  pressing  it  with 


Horror  of  Darkness  239 

wet  hands.  The  horror  of  it  all,  the  darkness, 
the  man  in  the  corner,  that  moving  something, 
petrified  him. 

"Feyther!"  he  whispered. 

There  was  no  reply.  A  chair  creaked  at  an 
invisible  touch.  Something  was  creeping, 
stealing,  crawling  closer. 

David  was  afraid. 

"Feyther!"  he  whispered  in  hoarse  agony, 
"areyo'  hurt?" 

The  words  were  stifled  in  his  throat.  A 
chair  overturned  with  a  crash ;  a  great  body 
struck  him  on  the  chest ;  a  hot,  pestilent  breath 
volleyed  in  his  face,  and  wolfish  teeth  were 
reaching  for  his  throat. 

"Come  on,  Killer!"  he  screamed. 

The  horror  of  suspense  was  past.  It  had 
come,  and  with  it  he  was  himself  again. 

Back,  back,  back,  along  the  wall  he  was 
borne.  His  hands  entwined  themselves 
around  a  hairy  throat;  he  forced  the  great 
head  with  its  horrid  lightsome  eyes  from  him ; 
he  braced  himself  for  the  effort,  lifted  the 
huge  body  at  his  breast,  and  heaved  it  from  him. 
It  struck  the  wall  and  fell  with  a  soft  thud. 

As  he  recoiled  a  hand  clutched  his  ankle  and 
sought  to  trip  him.  David  kicked  back  and 
down  with  all  his  strength.  There  was  one 
awful  groan,  and  he  staggered  against  the 
door  and  out. 

There  he  paused,  leaning  against  the  wall  to 
breathe. 


240  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

He  struck  a  match  and  lifted  his  foot  to  see 
where  the  hand  had  clutched  him. 

God !  there  was  blood  on  his  heel. 

Then  a  great  fear  laid  hold  on  him.  A  cry 
was  suffocated  in  his  breast  by  the  panting  of 
his  heart. 

He  crept  back  to  the  kitchen  door  and  list- 
ened. 

Not  a  sound. 

Fearfully  he  opened  it  a  crack. 

Silence  of  the  tomb. 

He  banged  it  to.  It  opened  behind  him, 
and  the  fact  lent  wings  to  his  feet. 

He  turned  and  plunged  out  into  the  night, 
and  ran  through  the  blackness  for  his  life. 
And  a  great  owl  swooped  softly  by  and  hooted 
mockingly : 

"  For  your  life !  for  your  life !  for  your  life !" 


PART  V 


OWD   BOB  O'  KENMUIR 


CHAPTER   XXII 

A   MAN   AND   A   MAID 

In  the  village  even  the  Black  Killer  and  the 
murder  on  the  Screes  were  forgotten  in  this 
new  sensation.  The  mystery  in  which  the 
affair  was  wrapped,  and  the  ignorance  as  to  all 
its  details,  served  to  whet  the  general  interest. 
There  had  been  a  fight;  M' Adam  and  the  Ter- 
ror had  been  mauled ;  and  David  had  disap- 
peared— those  were  the  facts.  But  what  was 
the  origin  of  the  affray  no  one  could  say. 

One  or  two  of  the  Dalesmen  had,  indeed,  a 
shrewd  suspicion.  Tupper  looked  guilty; 
Jem  Burton  muttered,  "  I  knoo  hoo  'twould  be" ; 
while  as  for  Long  Kirby,  he  vanished  entirely, 
not  to  reappear  till  three  months  had  sped. 

Injured  as  he  had  been,  M'Adam  was  yet 
sufficiently  recovered  to  appear  in  the  Sylves- 
ter Arms  on  the  Saturday  following  the  battle. 
He  entered  the  tap-room  silently  with  never  a 
word  to  a  soul;  one  arm  was  in  a  sling  and 
his  head  bandaged.  He  eyed  every  man  pres- 
ent critically;  and  all,  except  Tammas,  who 
was  brazen,  and  Jim  Mason,  who  was  inno- 
cent, fidgeted  beneath  the  stare.  Maybe  it 
was  well  for  Long  Kirby  he  was  not  there. 

"Onythin'    the    matter?"     asked    Jem,    at 


244  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

length,  rather  lamely,  in  view  of  the  plain  evi- 
dences of  battle. 

"Na,  na;  naethin'  oot  o'  the  ordinary  the 
little  man  replied,  giggling.  "Only  David 
set  on  me,  and  me  sleepin'.  And,"  with  a 
shrug,  "here  I  am  noo."  He  sat  down,  wag- 
ging his  bandaged  head  and  grinning.  "  Ye 
see  he's  sae  playfu',  is  Davie.  He  wangs  ye 
o'er  the  head  wi'  a  chair,  kicks  ye  in  the  jaw, 
stamps  onyerwame,  and  all  as  merry  as  May." 
And  nothing  further  could  they  get  from  him, 
except  that  if  David  reappeared  it  was  his 
[M*  Adam's]  firm  resolve  to  hand  him  over  to 
the  police  for  attempted  parricide. 

"  'Brutal  assault  on  an  auld  man  by  his  son !' 
"Twill  look  well  in  the  Argus ;  he!  he!  They 
couldna  let  him  aff  under  two  years,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

M*  Adam's  version  of  the  affair  was  received 
with  quiet  incredulity.  The  general  verdict 
was  that  he  had  brought  his  punishment  en- 
tirely on  his  own  head.  Tammas,  indeed,  who 
was  always  rude  when  he  was  not  witty,  and, 
in  fact,  the  difference  between  the  two  things 
is  only  one  of  degree,  told  him  straight :  "  It 
served  yo'  well  reet.  An'  I  nob'but  wish 
he'd  made  an  end  to  yo'." 

"He  did  his  best,  puir  lad,"  M'Adam  re- 
minded him  gently. 

"We've  had  enough  o'  yo',"  continued  the 
uncompromising  old  man.  "I'm  fair  grieved 
he  didna  slice  yer  throat  while  he  was  at  it." 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  245 

At  that  M'Adam  raised  his  eyebrows,  stared, 
and  then  broke  into  a  low  whistle. 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  he  muttered,  as  though  a 
new  light  was  dawning  on  him.  "  Ah,  noo  I 
see." 

The  days  passed  on.  There  was  still  no 
news  of  the  missing  one,  and  Maggie's  face 
became  pitifully  white  and  haggard. 

Of  course  she  did  not  believe  that  David  had 
attempted  to  murder  his  father,  desperately 
tried  as  she  knew  he  had  been.  Still,  it  was  a 
terrible  thought  to  her  that  he  might  at  any 
moment  be  arrested ;  and  her  girlish  imagina- 
tion was  perpetually  conjuring  up  horrid  pic- 
tures of  a  trial,  conviction,  and  the  things  that 
followed. 

Then  Sam'l  started  a  wild  theory  that  the 
little  man  had  murdered  his  son,  and  thrown 
the  mangled  body  down  the  dry  well  at  the 
Grange.  The  story  was,  of  course,  preposter- 
ous, and,  coming  from  such  a  source,  might 
well  have  been  discarded  with  the  ridicule  it 
deserved.  Yet  it  served  to  set  the  cap  on  the 
girl's  fears;  and  she  resolved,  at  whatever 
cost,  to  visit  the  Grange,  beard  M'Adam,  and 
discover  whether  he  could  not  or  would  not 
allay  her  gnawing  apprehension. 

Her  intent  she  concealed  from  her  father, 
knowing  well  that  were  she  to  reveal  it  to  him, 
he  would  gently  but  firmly  forbid  the  attempt ; 
and   on   an   afternoon    some    fortnight    after 


246  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

David's  disappearance,  choosing  her  opportu- 
nity, she  picked  up  a  shawl,  threw  it  over  her 
head,  and  fled  with  palpitating  heart  out  of  the 
farm  and  down  the  slope  to  the  Wastrel. 

The  little  plank-bridge  rattled  as  she  tripped 
across  it;  and  she  fled  faster  lest  any  one 
should  have  heard  and  come  to  look.  And, 
indeed,  at  the  moment  it  rattled  again  behind 
her,  and  she  started  guiltily  round.  It  proved, 
however,  to  be  only  Owd  Bob,  sweeping  after, 
and  she  was  glad. 

"Comin'  wi'  me,  lad?"  she  asked  as  the  old 
dog  cantered  up,  thankful  to  have  that  gray 
protector  with  her. 

Round  Langholm  now  fled  the  two  conspira- 
tors ;  over  the  summer-clad  lower  slopes  of  the 
Pike,  until,  at  length,  they  reached  the  Stony 
Bottom.  Down  the  bramble-covered  bank  of 
the  ravine  the  girl  slid ;  picked  her  way  from 
stone  to  stone  across  the  streamlet  tinkling  in 
that  rocky  bed ;  and  scrambled  up  the  opposite 
bank. 

At  the  top  she  halted  and  looked  back.  The 
smoke  from  Kenmuir  was  winding  slowly  up 
against  the  sky ;  to  her  right  the  low  gray  cot- 
tages of  the  village  cuddled  in  the  bosom  of 
the  Dale ;  far  away  over  the  Marches  towered 
the  gaunt  Scaur;  before  her  rolled  the  swell- 
ing slopes  of  the  Muir  Pike;  while  behind — 
she  glanced  timidly  over  her  shoulder — was 
the  hill,  at  the  top  of  which  squatted  the 
Grange,  lifeless,  cold,  scowling. 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  247 

Her  heart  failed  her.  In  her  whole  life  she 
had  never  spoken  to  M'  Adam.  Yet  she  knew 
him  well  enough  from  all  David's  accounts — 
ay,  and  hated  him  for  David's  sake.  She 
hated  him  and  feared  him,  too;  feared  him 
mortally — this  terrible  little  man.  And,  with 
a  shudder,  she  recalled  the  dim  face  at  the 
window,  and  thought'  of  his  notorious  hatred 
of  her  father.  But  even  M'  Adam  could  hardly 
harm  a  girl  coming,  broken-hearted,  to  seek 
her  lover.  Besides,  was  not  Owd  Bob  with 
her? 

And,  turning,  she  saw  the  old  dog  standing  a 
little  way  up  the  hill,  looking  back  at  her  as 
though  he  wondered  why  she  waited.  "  Am  I 
not  enough?"  the  faithful  gray  eyes  seemed  to 
say. 

"Lad,  I'm  fear'd,"  was  her  answer  to  the 
unspoken  question. 

Yet  that  look  determined  her.  She  clenched 
her  little  teeth,  drew  the  shawl  about  her,  and 
set  off  running  up  the  hill. 

Soon  the  run  dwindled  to  a  walk,  the  walk 
to  a  crawl,  and  the  crawl  to  a  halt.  Her  breath 
was  coming  painfully,  and  her  heart  pattered 
against  her  side  like  the  beatings  of  an  impris- 
oned bird.  Again  her  gray  guardian  looked 
up,  encouraging  her  forward. 

"Keep  close,  lad,"  she  whispered,  starting 
forward  afresh.  And  the  old  dog  ranged  up 
beside  her,  shoving  into  her  skirt,  as  though 
to  let  her  feel  his  presence. 


248  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

So  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill ;  and  the 
house  stood  before  them,  grim,  unfriendly. 

The  girl's  face  was  now  quite  white,  yet  set; 
the  resemblance  to  her  father  was  plain  to  see. 
With  lips  compressed  and  breath  quick-coming, 
she  crossed  the  threshold,  treading  softly  as 
though  in  a  house  of  the  dead.  There  she 
paused  and  lifted  a  warning  finger  at  her  com- 
panion, bidding  him  halt  without;  then  she 
turned  to  the  door  on  the  left  of  the  entrance 
and  tapped. 

She  listened,  her  head  buried  in  the  shawl, 
close  to  the  wood  panelling.  There  was  no 
answer ;  she  could  only  hear  the  drumming  of 
her  heart. 

She  knocked  again.  From  within  came  the 
scraping  of  a  chair  cautiously  shoved  back,  fol- 
lowed by  a  deep-mouthed  cavernous  growl. 

Her  heart  stood  still,  but  she  turned  the 
handle  and  entered,  leaving  a  crack  open  be- 
hind. 

On  the  far  side  the  room  a  little  man  was 
sitting.  His  head  was  swathed  in  dirty  ban- 
dages, and  a  bottle  was  on  the  table  beside 
him.  He  was  leaning  forward;  his  face  was 
gray,  and  there  was  a  stare  of  naked  horror  in 
his  eyes.  One  hand  grasped  the  great  dog 
who  stood  at  his  side,  with  yellow  teeth  glint- 
ing, and  muzzle  hideously  wrinkled ;  with  the 
other  he  pointed  a  palsied  finger  at  her. 

"Ma  God!  wha  are  ye?"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

The  girl  stood  hard  against  the  door,  her 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  249 

fingers  still  on  the  handle ;  trembling  like  an 
aspen  at  the  sight  of  that  uncannie  pair. 

That  look  in  the  little  man's  eyes  petrified 
her:  the  swollen  pupils;  lashless  lids,  yawning 
wide ;  the  broken  range  of  teeth  in  that  gaping 
mouth,  froze  her  very  soul.  Rumors  of  the 
man's  insanity  tided  back  on  her  memory. 

"I'm — I "  the  words  came  in  trembling 

gasps. 

At  the  first  utterance,  however,  the  little 
man's  hand  dropped;  he  leant  back  in  his 
chair  and  gave  a  soul-bursting  sigh  of  relief. 

No  woman  had  crossed  that  threshold  since 
his  wife  died;  and,  for  a  moment,  when  first 
the  girl  had  entered  silent-footed,  aroused  from 
dreaming  of  the  long  ago,  he  had  thought  this 
shawl-clad  figure  with  the  pale  face  and  peep- 
ing hair  no  earthly  visitor;  the  spirit,  rather, 
of  one  he  had  loved  long  since  and  lost,  come 
to  reproach  him  with  a  broken  troth. 

"Speak  up,  I  canna  hear,"  he  said,  in  tones 
mild  compared  with  those  last  wild  words. 

"  I — I'm  Maggie  Moore,"  the  girl  quavered. 

"Moore!  Maggie  Moore,  d'ye  say?"  he 
cried,  half  rising  from  his  chair,  a  flush  of 
color  sweeping  across  his  face,  "the  dochter  o' 
James  Moore?"  He  paused  for  an  answer, 
glowering  at  her ;  and  she  shrank,  trembling, 
against  the  door. 

The  little  man  leant  back  in  his  chair. 
Gradually  a  grim  smile  crept  across  his  coun- 
tenance. 


250  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Weel,  Maggie  Moore,"  he  said,  half- 
amused,  "ony  gate  ye're  a  good  plucked  un." 
And  his  wizened  countenance  looked  at  her 
almost  kindly  from  beneath  its  dirty  crown  of 
bandages. 

At  that  the  girl's  courage  returned  with  a 
rush.  After  all  this  little  man  was  not  so  very 
terrible.  Perhaps  he  would  be  kind.  And  in 
the  relief  of  the  moment,  the  blood  swept  back 
into  her  face. 

There  was  not  to  be  peace  yet,  however. 
The  blush  was  still  hot  upon  her  cheeks,  when 
she  caught  the  patter  of  soft  steps  in  the  pas- 
sage without.  A  dark  muzzle  flecked  with 
gray  pushed  in  at  the  crack  of  the  door ;  two 
anxious  gray  eyes  followed. 

Before  she  could  wave  him  back,  Red  Wull 
had  marked  the  intruder.  With  a  roar  he  tore 
himself  from  his  master's  restraining  hand, 
and  dashed  across  the  room. 

"Back,  Bob!"  screamed  Maggie,  and  the 
dark  head  withdrew.  The  door  slammed  with 
a  crash  as  the  great  dog  flung  himself  against 
it,  and  Maggie  was  hurled,  breathless  and 
white-faced,  into  a  corner. 

M'Adam  was  on  his  feet,  pointing  with  a 
shrivelled  finger,  his  face  diabolical. 

"  Did  you  bring  him  ?  did  you  bring  that  to 
ma  door?" 

Maggie  huddled  in  the  corner  in  a  palsy  of 
trepidation.  Her  eyes  gleamed  big  and  black 
in   the  white   face   peering   from   the   shawl. 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  251 

Red  Wull  was  now  beside  her,  snarling  horri- 
bly. With  nose  to  the  bottom  of  the  door  and 
busy  paws  he  was  trying  to  get  out;  while, 
on  the  other  side,  Owd  Bob,  snuffling  also  at 
the  crack,  scratched  and  pleaded  to  get  in. 
Only  two  miserable  wooden  inches  separated 
the  pair. 

"  I  brought  him  to  protect  me.  I — I  was 
afraid." 

M'Adam  sat  down  and  laughed  abruptly. 

"Afraid!  I  wonder  ye  were  na  afraid  to 
bring  him  here.  It's  the  first  time  iver  he's 
set  foot  on  ma  land,  and  't  had  best  be  the 
last."  He  turned  to  the  great  dog.  "Wullie, 
Wullie,  wad  ye?"  he  called.  "Come  here. 
Lay  ye  doon — so — under  ma  chair — good  lad. 
Noo's  no  the  time  to  settle  wi'  him" — nodding 
toward  the  door.  "We  can  wait  for  that, 
Wullie ;  we  can  wait."  Then,  turning  to  Mag- 
gie, "  Gin  ye  want  him  to  mak'  a  show  at  the 
Trials  two  months  hence,  he'd  best  not  come 
here  agin.  Gin  he  does,  he'll  no  leave  ma 
land  alive ;  Wullie '11  see  to  that.  Noo,  what  is 
't  ye  want  o'  me?" 

The  girl  in  the  corner,  scared  almost  out  of 
her  senses  by  this  last  occurrence,  remained 
dumb. 

M'Adam  marked  her  hesitation,  and  grinned 
sardonically. 

"I  see  hoo  'tis,"  said  he;  "yer  dad's  sent 
ye.  Aince  before  he  wanted  somethin'  o*  me, 
and  did  he  come  to  fetch  it  himself  like  a  man? 


252  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Not  he.  He  sent  the  son  to  rob  the  father." 
Then,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  and  glaring 
at  the  girl,  "Ay,  and  mair  than  that!  The 
night  the  lad  set  on  me  he  cam'" — with  hissing 
emphasis — "straight  from  Kenmuir!"  He 
paused  and  stared  at  her  intently,  and  she  was 
still  dumb  before  him.  "Gin  I'd  bin  killed, 
Wullie'd  ha'  bin  disqualified  from  competin' 
for  the  Cup.  With  Adam  M' Adam's  Red 
Wull  oot  o'  the  way — noo  d'ye  see?  Noo  d'ye 
onderstan'?" 

She  did  not,  and  he  saw  it  and  was  satisfied. 
What  he  had  been  saying  she  neither  knew 
nor  cared.  She  only  remembered  the  object  of 
her  mission ;  she  only  saw  before  her  the  father 
of  the  man  she  loved ;  and  a  wave  of  emotion 
surged  up  in  her  breast. 

She  advanced  timidly  toward  him,  holding 
out  her  hands. 

"Eh,  Mr.  M' Adam,"  she  pleaded,  "I  come 
to  ask  ye  after  David."  The  shawl  had  slipped 
from  her  head,  and  lay  loose  upon  her  shoul- 
ders ;  and  she  stood  before  him  with  her  sad 
face,  her  pretty  hair  all  tossed,  and  her  eyes 
big  with  unshed  tears — a  touching  suppliant. 

"Will  ye  no  tell  me  wheer  he  is?  I'd  not 
ask  it,  I'd  not  trouble  yo',  but  I've  bin  waitin' 
a  waefu'  while,  it  seems,  and  I'm  wearyin'  for 
news  o'  him." 

The  little  man  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  Ah, 
noo  I  mind  me," — this  to  himself .  "You're 
the  lass  as  is  thinkin'  o'  marryin'  him?" 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  253 

"We're  promised,"  the  girl  answered"  sim- 
ply. 

"Weel,"  the  other  remarked,  "as  I  said 
afore,  ye' re  a  good  plucked  un."  Then,  in  a 
tone  in  which,  despite  the  cynicism,  a  certain 
indefinable  sadness  was  blended,  "Gin  he 
mak's  you  as  good  a  husband  as  he  mad'  son 
to  me,  ye'll  ha'  made  a  maist  remairkable 
match,  my  dear." 

Maggie  fired  in  a  moment. 

"A  good  feyther  makes  a  good  son,"  she 
answered  almost  pertly ;  and  then,  with  infinite 
tenderness,  "and  I'm  prayin'  a  good  wife '11 
make  a  good  husband." 

He  smiled  scoffingly. 

"I'm  feared  that'll  no  help  ye  much,"  he 
said. 

But  the  girl  never  heeded  this  last  sneer,  so 
set  was  she  on  her  purpose.  She  had  heard 
of  the  one  tender  place  in  the  heart  of  this  lit- 
tle man  with  the  tired  face  and  mocking  tongue, 
and  she  resolved  to  attain  her  end  by  appeal- 
ing to  it. 

"Yo'  loved  a  lass  yo'sel'  aince,  Mr. 
M'Adam,"  she  said.  "  Hoo  would  yo'  ha'  felt 
had  she  gone  away  and  left  yo'  ?  Yo'd  ha'  bin 
mad ;  yo'  know  yo'  would.  And,  Mr.  M'  Adam, 
I  love  the  lad  yer  wife  loved."  She  was  kneel- 
ing at  his  feet  now  with  both  hands  on  his 
knees,  looking  up  at  him.  Her  sad  face  and 
quivering  lips  pleaded  for  her  more  eloquently 
than  any  words. 


254  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

The  little  man  was  visibly  touched. 

"Ay,  ay,  lass,  that's  enough,"  he  said,  try* 
ing  to  avoid  those  big  beseeching  eyes  which 
would  not  be  avoided. 

"Will  ye  no  tell  me?"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  canna  tell  ye,  lass,  for  why,  I  dinna  ken," 
he  answered  querulously.  In  truth,  he  was 
moved  to  the  heart  by  her  misery. 

The  girl's  last  hopes  were  dashed.  She  had 
played  her  last  card  and  failed.  She  had  clung 
with  the  fervor  of  despair  to  this  last  resource, 
and  now  it  was  torn  from  her.  She  had 
hoped,  and  now  there  was  no  hope.  In  the 
anguish  of  her  disappointment  she  remembered 
that  this  was  the  man  who,  by  his  persistent 
cruelty,  had  driven  her  love  into  exile. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  back. 

"  Nor  ken,  nor  care!"  she  cried  bitterly. 

At  the  words  all  the  softness  fled  from  the 
little  man's  face. 

"Ye  do  me  a  wrang,  lass;  ye  do  indeed," 
he  said,  looking  up  at  her  with  an  assumed  in- 
genuousness which,  had  she  known  him  better, 
would  have  warned  her  to  beware.  "Gin  I 
kent  where  the  lad  was  I'd  be  the  vairy  first  to 
let  you,  and  the  p'lice,  ken  it  too;  eh,  Wullie! 
he!  he!"  He  chuckled  at  his  wit  and  rubbed 
his  knees,  regardless  of  the  contempt  blazing 
in  the  girl's  face. 

"  I  canna  tell  ye  where  he  is  now,  but  ye'd 
aiblins  care  to  hear  o'  when  I  saw  him  last." 
He  turned  his  chair  the  better  to  address  her. 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  255 

"  'Twas  like  so:  I  was  sittin'  in  this  vairy 
chair  it  was,  asleep,  when  he  crep'  up  behind 
an'  lep'  on  ma  back.  I  knew  naethin'  o't  till 
I  found  masel'  on  the  floor  an'  him  kneelin'  on 
me.  I  saw  by  the  look  on  him  he  was  set  on 
finishin'  me,  so  I  said " 

The  girl  waved  her  hand  at  him,  superbly 
disdainful. 

"Yo*  ken  yo're  lyin',  ivery  word  o't,"  she 
cried. 

The  little  man  hitched  his  trousers,  crossed 
his  legs,  and  yawned. 

"An  honest  lee  for  an  honest  pur- 
pose is  a  matter  ony  man  may  be  proud 
of,  as  you'll  ken  by  the  time  you're  my  years, 
ma  lass." 

The  girl  slowly  crossed  the  room.  At  the 
door  she  turned. 

"Thenye'll  no  tell  me  wheer  he  is?"  she 
asked  with  a  heart-breaking  trill  in  her  voice. 

"On  ma  word,  lass,  I  dinna  ken,"  he  cried, 
half  passionately. 

"On  your  word,  Mr.  M'Adam!"  she  said 
with  a  quiet  scorn  in  her  voice  that  might  have 
stung  Iscariot. 

The  little  man  spun  round  in  his  chair,  an 
angry  red  dyeing  his  cheeks.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  was  suave  and  smiling  again. 

"I  canna  tell  ye  where  he  is  noo,"  he  said, 
unctuously ;  "  but  aiblins,  I  could  let  ye  know 
where  he's  gaein'  to." 

"Canyo'?   willyo'?"    cried  the  simple  girl, 


256  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

all  unsuspecting.  In  a  moment  she  was  across 
the  room  and  at  his  knees. 

"Closer,  and  I'll  whisper."  The  little  ear, 
peeping  from  its  nest  of  brown,  was  trem- 
blingly approached  to  his  lips.  The  little  man 
leant  forward  and  whispered  one  short,  sharp 
word,  then  sat  back,  grinning,  to  watch  the 
effect  of  his  disclosure. 

He  had  his  revenge,  an  unworthy  revenge 
on  such  a  victim.  And,  watching  the  girl's 
face,  the  cruel  disappointment  merging  in  the 
heat  of  her  indignation,  he  had  yet  enough 
nobility  to  regret  his  triumph. 

She  sprang  from  him  as  though  he  were  un- 
clean . 

"An'  yo'  his  father!"  she  cried,  in  burning 
tones. 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  at  the  door 
paused.  Her  face  was  white  again  and  she 
was  quite  composed. 

"  If  David  did  strike  you,  you  drove  him  to 
it,"  she  said,  speaking  in  calm,  gentle  accents. 
"  Yo'  know,  none  so  well,  whether  yo've  bin  a 
good  feyther  to  him,  and  him  no  mither,  poor 
laddie !  whether  yo've  bin  to  him  what  she'd 
ha'  had  yo'  be.  Ask  yer  conscience,  Mr. 
M'Adam.  An'  if  he  was  a  wee  aggravatin'  at 
times,  had  he  no  reason?  He'd  a  heavy  cross 
to  bear,  had  David,  and  yo'  know  best  if  yo' 
helped  to  ease  it  for  him." 

The  little  man  pointed  to  the  door ;  but  the 
girl  paid  no  heed. 


A  Man  and  a  Maid  257 

"  D'yo'  think  when  yo'  were  cruel  to  him, 
jeerin'  and  fleerin',  he  never  felt  it,  because 
he  was  too  proud  to  show  ye?  He'd  a  big  saft 
heart,  had  David,  beneath  the  varnish.  Mony 's 
the  time  when  mither  was  alive,  I've  seen  him 
throw  himsel'  into  her  arms,  sobbin',  and  cry, 
'Eh,  if  I  had  but  mither!  'Twas  different 
when  mither  was  alive ;  he  was  kinder  to  me 
then.  An'  noo  I've  no  one;  I'm  alone.'  An' 
he'd  sob  and  sob  in  mither 's  arms,  and  she, 
weepin'  hersel',  would  comfort  him,  while  he, 
wee  laddie,  would  no  be  comforted,  cryin' 
broken-like,  'There's  none  to  care  for  me  noo; 
I'm  alone.  Mither's  left  me  and  eh!  I'm 
prayin'  to  be  wi'  her!'" 

The  clear,  girlish  voice  shook.  M'Adam, 
sitting  with  face  averted,  waved  to  her,  mutely 
ordering  her  to  be  gone.  But  she  held  on, 
gentle,  sorrowful,  relentless. 

"An'  what'll  yo'  say  to  his  mither  when  yo* 
meet  her,  as  yo'  must  soon  noo,  and  she  asks 
yo',  'An'  what  o'  David?  What  o'  th'  lad  I 
left  wi'  yo',  Adam,  to  guard  and  keep  for  me, 
faithful  and  true,  till  this  Day?'  And  then 
yo'll  ha'  to  speak  the  truth,  God's  truth;  and  y 
yo'll  ha'  to  answer,  'Sin'  the  day  yo'  left  me  I 
niver  said  a  kind  word  to  the  lad.  I  niver 
bore  wi'  him,  and  niver  tried  to.  And  in  the 
end  I  drove  him  by  persecution  to  try  and 
murder  me.'  Then  maybe  she'll  look  at  yo* 
— yo'  best  ken  hoo — and  she'll  say,  'Adam, 
Adam !  is  this  what  I  deserved  fra  yo'  ?'  " 


258  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

The  gentle,  implacable  voice  ceased.  The 
girl  turned  and  slipped  softly  out  of  the  room ; 
and  M'Adam  was  left  alone  to  his  thoughts 
and  his  dead  wife's  memory. 

"Mither  and  father,  baith!  Mither  and 
father,  baith !"  rang  remorselessly  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TH'    OWD   UN 

The  Black  Killer  still  cursed  the  land. 
Sometimes  there  would  be  a  cessation  in  the 
crimes;  then  a  shepherd,  going  his  rounds, 
would  notice  his  sheep  herding  together,  pack- 
ing in  unaccustomed  squares;  a  raven,  gorged 
to  the  crop,  would  rise  before  him  and  flap 
wearily  away,  and  he  would  come  upon  the 
murderer's  latest  victim. 

The  Dalesmen  were  in  despair,  so  utterly 
futile  had  their  efforts  been.  There  was  no 
proof;  no  hope,  no  apparent  probability  that 
the  end  was  near.  As  for  the  Tailless  Tyke, 
the  only  piece  of  evidence  against  him  had 
flown  with  David,  who,  as  it  chanced,  had  di- 
vulged what  he  had  seen  to  no  man. 

The  £100  reward  offered  had  brought  no 
issue.  The  police  had  done  nothing.  The 
Special  Commissioner  had  been  equally  suc- 
cessful. After  the  affair  in  the  Scoop  the 
Killer  never  ran  a  risk,  yet  never  missed  a 
chance. 

Then,  as  a  last  resource,  Jim  Mason  made 
his  attempt.  He  took  a  holiday  from  his 
duties  and  disappeared  into  the  wilderness. 
Three  days  and  three  nights  no  man  saw  him. 


26 o  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  he  reappeared, 
haggard,  unkempt,  a  furtive  look  haunting  his 
eyes,  sullen  for  once,  irritable,  who  had  never 
been  irritable  before — to  confess  his  failure. 
Cross-examined  further,  he  answered  with  un- 
accustomed fierceness :  "  I  seed  nowt,  I  tell  ye. 
Who's  the  liar  as  said  I  did?" 

But  that  night  his  missus  heard  him  in  his 
sleep  conning  over  something  to  himself  in 
slow,  fearful  whisper,  "Two  on  'em;  one 
ahint  t'other.     The  first  big— bull-like ;  t'ith- 

er "    At  which  point  Mrs.  Mason  smote  him 

a  smashing  blow  in  the  ribs,  and  he  woke  in  a 
sweat,  crying  terribly,  "  Who  said  I  seed " 

The  days  were  slipping  away ;  the  summer 
was  hot  upon  the  land,  and  with  it  the  Black 
Killer  was  forgotten;  David  was  forgotten; 
everything  sank  into  oblivion  before  the  all- 
absorbing  interest  of  the  coming  Dale  trials. 

The  long-anticipated  battle  for  the  Shep- 
herds' Trophy  was  looming  close;  soon  every- 
thing that  hung  upon  the  issue  of  that  struggle 
would  be  decided  finally.  For  ever  the  jus- 
tice of  Th'  Owd  Un's  claim  to  his  proud  title 
would  be  settled.  If  he  won,  he  won  outright 
— a  thing  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  the 
Cup;  if*he  won,  the  place  of  Owd  Bob  o'  Ken- 
muir  as  first  in  his  profession  was  assured  for 
all  time.  Above  all,  it  was  the  last  event  in 
the  six  years'  struggle  'twixt  Red  and  Gray. 
It  was  the  last  time  those  two   great   rivals 


Th"  Owd  Un  261 

t 

would  meet  in  battle.  The  supremacy  of  one 
would  be  decided  once  and  for  all.  For  win  or 
lose,  it  was  the  last  public  appearance  of  the 
Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir. 

And  as  every  hour  brought  the  great  day 
nearer,  nothing  else  was  talked  of  in  the 
country-side.  The  heat  of  the  Dalesmen's 
enthusiasm  was  only  intensified  by  the  fever 
of  their  apprehension.  Many  a  man  would 
lose  more  than  he  cared  to  contemplate  were 
Th'  Owd  Un  beat.  But  he'd  not  be!  Nay; 
owd,  indeed,  he  was — two  years  older  than  his 
great  rival;  there  were  a  hundred  risks,  a 
hundred  chances;  still:  "What's  the  odds 
agin  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir?  I'm  takin'  'em. 
Who'll  lay  agin  Th'  Owd  Un?" 

And  with  the  air  saturated  with  this  perpet- 
ual talk  of  the  old  dog,  these  everlasting  refer- 
ences to  his  certain  victory ;  his  ears  drumming 
with  the  often  boast  that  the  gray  dog  was  the 
best  in  the  North,  M'Adam  became  the  silent, 
ill-designing  man  of  six  months  since — morose, 
brooding,  suspicious,  muttering  of  conspiracy  ^ 
plotting  revenge. 

The  scenes  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  were  rep- 
licas of  those  of  previous  years.  Usually  the 
little  man  sat  isolated  in  a  far  corner,  silent 
and  glowering,  with  Red  Wull  at  his  feet. 
Now  and  then  he  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of 
insane  giggling,  slapping  his  thigh,  and  mut- 
tering, "Ay,  it's  likely  they'll  beat  us,  Wullie. 
Yet  aiblins  there's  a  wee  somethin' — a  some- 


262  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

thin'  we  ken  and  they  dinna,  Wullie, — eh !  Wul- 
lie,  he!  he!"  And  sometimes  he  would  leap 
to  his  feet  and  address  his  pot-house  audience, 
appealing  to  them  passionately,  satirically, 
tearfully,  as  the  mood  might  be  on  him ;  and 
his  theme  was  always  the  same :  James  Moore, 
Owd  Bob,  the  Cup,  and  the  plots  agin  him  and 
his  Wullie ;  and  always  he  concluded  with  that 
hint  of  the  surprise  to  come. 

Meantime,  there  was  no  news  of  David;  he 
had  gone  as  utterly  as  a  ship  foundered  in 
mid- Atlantic.  Some  said  he'd  'listed;  some, 
that  he'd  gone  to  sea.  And  "So  he  'as,"  cor- 
roborated Sam'l,  "floatin',  'eels  uppards." 

With  no  gleam  of  consolation,  Maggie's  mis- 
ery was  such  as  to  rouse  compassion  in  all 
hearts.  She  went  no  longer  blithely  singing 
about  her  work ;  and  all  the  springiness  had 
fled  from  her  gait.  The  people  of  Kenmuir 
vied  with  one  another  in  their  attempts  to  con- 
sole their  young  mistress. 

Maggie  was  not  the  only  one  in  whose  life 
David's  absence  had  created  a  void.  Last  as 
he  would  have  been  to  own  it,  M'Adam  felt 
acutely  the  boy's  loss.  It  may  have  been  he 
missed  the  ever-present  butt;  it  may  have 
been  a  nobler  feeling.  Alone  with  Red  Wull, 
too  late  he  felt  his  loneliness.  Sometimes, 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  by  himself,  thinking  of 
the  past,  he  experienced  sharp  pangs  of  re- 
morse ;  and  this  was  all  the  more  the  case  after 


Th'   Owd  Un  263 

Maggie's  visit.  Subsequent  to  that  day  the 
little  man,  to  do  him  justice,  was  never  known 
to  hint  by  word  or  look  an  ill  thing  of  his 
enemy's  daughter.  Once,  indeed,  when  Melia 
Ross  was  drawing  on  a  dirty  imagination  with 
Maggie  for  subject,  M'  Adam  shut  her  up  with : 
"  Ye're  a  maist  amazin'  big  liar,  Melia  Ross." 

Yet,  though  for  the  daughter  he  had  now 
no  evil  thought,  his  hatred  for  the  father  had 
never  been  so  uncompromising. 

He  grew  reckless  in  his  assertions.  His  life 
was  one  long  threat  against  James  Moore's. 
Now  he  openly  stated  his  conviction  that,  on 
the  eventful  night  of  the  fight,  James  Moore, 
with  object  easily  discernible,  had  egged  David 
on  to  murder  him. 

"Then  why  don't  yo'  go  and  tell  him  so,  yo' 
muckle  liar?"  roared  Tammas  at  last,  enraged 
to  madness. 

"  I  will !"  said  M'  Adam.     And  he  did. 

It  was  on  the  day  preceding  the  great  sum- 
mer sheep  fair  at  Grammoch-town  that  he  ful- 
filled his  vow. 

That  is  always  a  big  field-day  at  Kenmuir ; 
and  on  this  occasion  James  Moore  and  Owd 
Bob  had  been  up  and  working  on  the  Pike 
from  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Throughout  the 
straggling  lands  of  Kenmuir  the  Master  went 
with  his  untiring  adjutant,  rounding  up,  cut- 
ting out,  drafting.  It  was  already  noon  when 
the  flock  started  from  the  yard. 


264  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

On  the  gate  by  the  stile,  as  the  party  came 
up,  sat  M'Adam. 

"I've  a  word  to  say  to  you,  James  Moore," 
he  announced,  as  the  Master  approached. 

"Say  it  then,  and  quick.  I've  no  time  to 
stand  gossipin'  here,  if  yo'  have,"  said  the 
Master. 

M'Adam  strained  forward  till  he  nearly  top- 
pled off  the  gate. 

"  Queer  thing,  James  Moore,  you  should  be 
the  only  one  to  escape  this  Killer." 

"Yo'  forget  yoursel',  M'Adam." 

"Ay,  there's  me,"  acquiesced  the  little  man. 
"  But  you — hoo  d'yo'  'count  for  your  luck?" 

James  Moore  swung  round  and  pointed 
proudly  at  the  gray  dog,  now  patrolling  round 
the  flock. 

"There's  my  luck!"  he  said. 

M'Adam  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"So  I  thought,"  he  said,  "so  I  thought! 
And  I  s'pose  ye 're  thinkin'  that  yer  luck," 
nodding  at  the  gray  dog,  "will  win  you  the 
Cup  for  certain  a  month  hence." 

"  I  hope  so!"  said  the  Master. 

"Strange  if  he  should  not  after  all,"  mused 
the  little  man. 

James  Moore  eyed  him  suspiciously. 

"What  d'yo'  mean?"  he  asked  sternly. 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There's  mony  a  slip  'twixt  Cup  and  lip, 
that's  a'.  I  was  only  thinkin'  some  mischance 
might  come  to  him." 


Th'  Owd  Un  265 

The  Master's  eyes  flashed  dangerously.  He 
recalled  the  many  rumors  he  had  heard,  and 
the  attempt  on  the  old  dog  early  in  the  year. 

"I  canna  think  ony  one  would  be  coward 
enough  to  murder  him,"  he  said,  drawing 
himself  up. 

M'Adam  leant  forward.  There  was  a  nasty 
glitter  in  his  eye,  and  his  face  was  all  a-trem- 
ble. 

"  Ye'd  no  think  ony  one'd  be  cooard  enough 
to  set  the  son  to  murder  the  father.  Yet  some 
one  did, — set  the  lad  on  to  'sassinate  me.  He 
failed  at  me,  and  next,  I  suppose,  he'll  try  at 
Wullie!"  There  was  a  flush  on  the  sallow 
face,  and  a  vindictive  ring  in  the  thin  voice. 
"One  way  or  t'ither,  fair  or  foul,  Wullie  or 
me,  ain  or  baith,  has  got  to  go  afore  Cup  Day, 
eh,  James  Moore!  eh?" 

The  Master  put  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
gate.  "That'll  do,  M'Adam,"  he  said.  "I'll 
stop  to  hear  no  more,  else  I  might  get  angry 
wi'  yo'.  Noo  git  off  this  gate,  yo're  tres- 
passin'  as  'tis." 

He  shook  the  gate.  M'Adam  tumbled  off, 
and  went  sprawling  into  the  sheep  clustered 
below.  Picking  himself  up,  he  dashed  on 
through  the  flock,  waving  his  arms,  kicking 
fantastically,  and  scattering  confusion  every- 
where. 

"Just  wait  till  I'm  thro'  wi'  'em,  will  yo'?" 
shouted  the  Master,  seeing  the  danger. 

It  was  a  request  which,   according  to  the 


266  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

etiquette  of  shepherding,  one  man  was  bound 
to  grant  another.  But  M'Adam  rushed  on  re- 
gardless, dancing  and  gesticulating.  Save  for 
the  lightning  vigilance  of  Owd  Bob,  the  flock 
must  have  broken. 

"I  think  yo*  might  ha'  waited!"  remon- 
strated the  Master,  as  the  little  man  burst  his 
way  through. 

"Noo,  I've  forgot  somethin'!"  the  other 
cried,  and  back  he  started  as  he  had  gone. 

It  was  more  than  human  nature  could  tolerate. 

"Bob,  keep  him  off!" 

A  flash  of  teeth ;  a  blaze  of  gray  eyes ;  and 
the  old  dog  had  leapt  forward  to  oppose  the 
little  man's  advance. 

"Shift  oot  o'  ma  light!"  cried  he,  striving 
to  dash  past. 

"Hold  him,  lad!" 

And  hold  him  the  old  dog  did,  while  his 
master  opened  the  gate  and  put  the  flock 
through,  the  opponents  dodging  in  front  of 
one  another  like  opposing  three-quarter-backs 
at  the  Rugby  game. 

"Oot  o'  ma  path,  or  I'll  strike!"  shouted 
the  little  man  in  a  fury,  as  the  last  sheep 
passed  through  the  gate. 

"I'd  not,"  warned  the  Master. 

"But  I  will!"  yelled  M'Adam;  and,  darting 
forward  as  the  gate  swung  to,  struck  furiously 
at  his  opponent. 

He  missed,  and  the  gray  dog  charged  at 
him  like  a  mail -train. 


Th'  Owd  Un  267 

"  Hi !   James  Moore "  but  over  he  went 

like  a  toppled  wheelbarrow,  while  the  old  dog 
turned  again,  raced  at  the  gate,  took  it  mag- 
nificently in  his  stride,  and  galloped  up  the 
lane  after  his  master. 

At  M'  Adam's  yell,  James  Moore  had  turned. 

"Served  yo'  properly!"  he  called  back. 
"  He'll  lam  ye  yet  it's  not  wise  to  tamper  wi' 
a  gray  dog  or  his  sheep.  Not  the  first  time 
he's  downed  ye,  I'm  thinkin' !" 

The  little  man  raised  himself  painfully  to 
his  elbow  and  crawled  toward  the  gate.  The 
Master,  up  the  lane,  could  hear  him  cursing 
as  he  dragged  himself.  Another  moment,  and 
a  head  was  poked  through  the  bars  of  the 
gate,  and  a  devilish  little  face  looked  after 
him. 

"Downed  me,  by ,  he  did!"   the  little 

man   cried   passionately.     "  I   owed   ye  baith 

somethin'  before  this,  and  noo,  by ,  I  owe 

ye  somethin'  more.  An'  mind  ye,  Adam 
M'Adam  pays  his  debts!" 

"I've  heard  the  contrary,"  the  Master  re- 
plied drily,  and  turned  away  up  the  lane 
toward  the  Marches. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

A   SHOT    IN    THE    NIGHT 

It  was  only  three  short  weeks  before  Cup 
Day  that  one  afternoon  Jim  Mason  brought  a 
letter  to  Kenmuir.  James  Moore  opened  it 
as  the  postman  still  stood  in  the  door. 

It  was  from  Long  Kirby — still  in  retirement 
— begging  him  for  mercy's  sake  to  keep  Owd 
Bob  safe  within  doors  at  nights ;  at  all  events 
till  after  the  great  event  was  over.  For  Kirby 
knew,  as  did  every  Dalesman,  that  the  old  dog 
slept  in  the  porch,  between  the  two  doors  of 
the  house,  of  which  the  outer  was  only  loosely 
closed  by  a  chain,  so  that  the  ever- watchful 
guardian  might  slip  in  and  out,  and  go  his 
rounds  at  any  moment  of  the  night. 

This  was  how  the  smith  concluded  his  ill- 
spelt  note:  " Look  out  for  M'Adam  i  tell  you  i 
know  hel  tri  at  thowd  un  afore  cup  day — failin 
im  you.  if  th  ole  dog's  bete  i'm  a  ruined 
man  i  say  so  for  the  luv  o  God  keep  yer  eyes 
wide." 

The  Master  read  the  letter,  and  handed  it  to 
the  postman,  who  perused  it  carefully. 

"I  tell  yo'  what,"  said  Jim  at  length,  speak- 
ing with  an  earnestness  that  made  the  other 
stare,  "  I  wish  yo'd  do  what  he  asks  yo' :  keep 


A  Shot  in  the  Night  269 

Th'  Owd  Un  in  o'  nights,  I  mean,  just  for  the 
present." 

The  Master  shook  his  head  and  laughed, 
tearing  the  letter  to  pieces. 

"Nay,"  said  he;  "M'Adam  or  no  M'Adam, 
Cup  or  no  Cup,  Th'  Owd  Un  has  the  run  o' 
ma  land  same  as  he's  had  since  a  puppy. 
Why,  Jim,  the  first  night  I  shut  him  up  that 
night  the  Killer  comes,  I'll  lay." 

The  postman  turned  wearily  away,  and  the 
Master  stood  looking  after  him,  wondering 
what  had  come  of  late  to  his  former  cheery 
friend. 

Those  two  were  not  the  only  warnings  James 
Moore  received.  During  the  weeks  immediately 
preceding  the  Trials,  the  danger  signal  was 
perpetually  flaunted  beneath  his  nose. 

Twice  did  Watch,  the  black  cross-bred 
chained  in  the  straw-yard,  hurl  a  brazen  chal- 
lenge on  the  night  air.  Twice  did  the  Master, 
with  lantern,  Sam'l,  and  Owd  Bob,  sally  forth 
and  search  every  hole  and  corner  on  the  prem- 
ises— to  find  nothing.  One  of  the  dairy-maids 
gave  notice,  avowing  that  the  farm  was 
haunted;  that,  on  several  occasions  in  the 
early  morning,  she  had  seen  a  bogie  flitting 
down  the  slope  to  the  Wastrel — a  sure  portent, 
Sam'l  declared,  of  an  approaching  death  in 
the  house.  While  once  a  shearer,  coming  up 
from  the  village,  reported  having  seen,  in  the 
twilight  of  dawn,  a  little  ghostly  figure,  hag- 
gard and  startled,  stealing  silently  from  tree 


270  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

to  tree  in  the  larch -copse  by  the  lane.  The 
Master,  however,  irritated  by  these  constant 
alarms,  dismissed  the  story  summarily. 

"  One  thing  I'm  sartin  o', "  said  he.  "  There's 
not  a  critter  moves  on  Kenmuir  at  nights  but 
Th'  Owd  Un  knows  it." 

Yet,  even  as  he  said  it,  a  little  man,  drag- 
gled, weary-eyed,  smeared  with  dew  and  dust, 
was  limping  in  at  the  door  of  a  house  barely  a 
mile  away.  "Nae  luck,  Wullie,  curse  it!"  he 
cried,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  and  ad- 
dressing some  one  who  was  not  there — "nae 
luck.  An'  yet  I'm  sure  o't  as  I  am  that  there's 
a  God  in  heaven." 

M'Adam  had  become  an  old  man  of  late. 
But  little  more  than  fifty,  yet  he  looked  to  have 
reached  man's  allotted  years.  His  sparse  hair 
was  quite  white ;  his  body  shrunk  and  bowed ; 
and  his  thin  hand  shook  like  an  aspen  as  it 
groped  to  the  familiar  bottle. 

In  another  matter,  too,  he  was  altogether 
changed.  Formerly,  whatever  his  faults, 
there  had  been  no  harder-working  man  in  the 
country-side.  At  all  hours,  in  all  weathers, 
you  might  have  seen  him  with  his  gigantic 
attendant  going  his  rounds.  Now  all  that  was 
different:  he  never  put  his  hand  to  the  plough, 
and  with  none  to  help  him  the  land  was  left 
wholly  un  tended ;  so  that  men  said  that,  of  a 
surety,  there  would  be  a  farm  to  let  on  the 
March  Mere  Estate  come  Michaelmas. 


A  Shot  in  the  Night  271 

Instead  of  working,  the  little  man  sat  all 
day  in  the  kitchen  at  home,  brooding  over 
his  wrongs,  and  brewing  vengeance.  Even 
the  Sylvester  Arms  knew  him  no  more;  for 
he  stayed  where  he  was  with  his  dog  and  his 
bottle.  Only,  when  the  shroud  of  night  had 
come  down  to  cover  him,  he  slipped  out  and 
away  on  some  errand  on  which  not  even  Red 
Wull  accompanied  him. 

So  the  time  glided  on,  till  the  Sunday  before 
the  Trials  came  round. 

All  that  day  M'Adam  sat  in  his  kitchen, 
drinking,  muttering,  hatching  revenge. 

"Curse  it,  Wullie!  curse  it!  The  time's 
slippin' — slippin' — slippin'!  Thursday  next 
— but  three  days  mair !  and  I  haena  the  proof 
— I  haena  the  proof!" — and  he  rocked  to  and 
fro,  biting  his  nails  in  the  agony  of  his  im- 
potence. 

All  day  long  he  never  moved.  Long  after 
sunset  he  sat  on;  long  after  dark  had  elimi- 
nated the  features  of  the  room. 

"They're  all  agin  us,  Wullie.  It's  you  and 
I  alane,  lad.  M'  Adam's  to  be  beat  somehow, 
onyhow;  and  Moore's  to  win.  So  they've  set- 
tled it,  and  so  'twill  be — onless,  Wullie,  onless 
— but  curse  it!  I've  no  the  proof!" — and  he 
hammered  the  table  before  him  and  stamped 
on  the  floor. 

At  midnight  he  arose,  a  mad,  desperate  plan 
looming  through  his  fuddled  brain. 


272  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"I  swore  I'd  pay  him,  Wullie,  and  I  will. 
If  I  hang  for  it  I'll  be  even  wi'  him.  I  haena 
the  proof,  but  I  know — I  know  /"  He  groped 
his  way  to  the  mantelpiece  with  blind  eyes 
and  swirling  brain.  Reaching  up  with  fum- 
bling hands,  he  took  down  the  old  blunderbuss 
from  above  the  fireplace. 

"Wullie,"  he  whispered,  chuckling  hide- 
ously, "Wullie,  come  on!  You  and  I — he! 
he!"  But  the  Tailless  Tyke  was  not  there. 
At  nightfall  he  had  slouched  silently  out  of 
the  house  on  business  he  best  wot  of.  So  his 
master  crept  out  of  the  room  alone — on  tip- 
toe, still  chuckling. 

The  cool  night  air  refreshed  him,  and  he 
stepped  stealthily  along,  his  quaint  weapon 
over  his  shoulder:  down  the  hill;  across  the 
Bottom ;  skirting  the  Pike ;  till  he  reached  the 
plank-bridge  over  the  Wastrel. 

He  crossed  it  safely,  that  Providence  whose 
care  is  drunkards  placing  his  footsteps.  Then 
he  stole  up  the  slope  like  a  hunter  stalking  his 
prey. 

Arrived  at  the  gate,  he  raised  himself  cau- 
tiously, and  peered  over  into  the  moonlit 
yard.  There  was  no  sign  or  sound  of  living 
creature.  The  little  gray  house  slept  peace- 
fully in  the  shadow  of  the  Pike,  all  unaware 
of  the  man  with  murder  in  his  heart  labori- 
ously climbing  the  yard -gate. 

The  door  of  the  porch  was  wide,  the  chain 
hanging  limply  down,  unused;    and  the  little 


A  Shot   in  the  Night  273 

man  could  see  within,  the  moon  shining  on 
the  iron  studs  of  the  inner  door,  and  the 
blanket  of  him  who  should  have  slept  there, 
and  did  not. 

11  He's  no  there,  Wullie !     He's  no  there !" 

He  jumped  down  from  the  gate.  Throwing 
all  caution  to  the  winds,  he  reeled  recklessly 
across  the  yard.  The  drunken  delirium  of 
battle  was  on  him.  The  fever  of  anticipated 
victory  flushed  his  veins.  At  length  he  would 
take  toll  for  the  injuries  of  years. 

Another  moment,  and  he  was  in  front  of 
the  good  oak  door,  battering  at  it  madly  with 
clubbed  weapon,  yelling,  dancing,  screaming 
vengeance. 

"Where  is  he?  What's  he  at?  Come  and 
tell  me  that,  James  Moore!  Come  doon,  I 
say,  ye  coward!     Come  and  meet  me  like  a 


man 


'"Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  af  ten  led — 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed 
Or  to  victorie!'" 

The  soft  moonlight  streamed  down  on  the 
white-haired  madman  thundering  at  the  door, 
screaming  his  war-song. 

The  quiet  farmyard,  startled  from  its 
sleep,  awoke  in  an  uproar.  Cattle  shifted  in 
their  stalls;  horses  whinnied ;  fowls  chattered, 
aroused  by  the  din  and  dull  thudding  of  the 
blows ;  and  above  the  rest,  loud  and  piercing, 
the  shrill  cry  of  a  terrified  child. 


274  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Maggie,  wakened  from  a  vivid  dream  of 
David  chasing  the  police,  hurried  a  shawl 
around  her,  and  in  a  minute  had  the  baby  in 
her  arms  and  was  comforting  her — vaguely- 
fearing  the  while  that  the  police  were  after 
David. 

James  Moore  flung  open  a  window,  and,  lean- 
ing out,  looked  down  on  the  dishevelled  figure 
below  him. 

M'Adam  heard  the  noise,  glanced  up,  and 
saw  his  enemy.  Straightway  he  ceased  his 
attack  on  the  door,  arid,  running  beneath  the 
window,  shook  his  weapon  up  at  his  foe. 

"There  ye  are,  are  ye?  Curse  ye  for  a 
coward!  curse  ye  for  a  liar!  Come  doon,  I 
say,  James  Moore!  come  doon — I  daur  ye  to 
it!     Aince  and  for  a'  let's  settle  oor  account." 

The  Master,  looking  down  from  above, 
thought  that  at  length  the  little  man's  brain 
had  gone. 

"What  is't  yo'  want?"  he  asked,  as  calmly 
as  he  could,  hoping  to  gain  time. 

"What  is't  I  want?"  screamed  the  mad- 
man. "Hark  to  him!  He  crosses  me  in  ilka 
thing;  he  plots  agin  me;  he  robs  me  o'  ma 
Cup ;  he  sets  ma  son  agin  me  and  pits  him  on 
to  murder  me !     And  in  the  end  he " 

"Coom,  then,  coom!     I'll " 

"Gie  me  back  the  Cup  ye  stole,  James 
Moore !  Gie  me  back  ma  son  ye've  took  from 
me!  And  there's  anither  thing.  What's  yer 
gray  dog  doin'?     Where's  yer M 


A  Shot  in  the  Night  275 

The  Master  interposed  again : 

"I'll  coom  doon  and  talk  things  over  wi' 
yo',"  he  said  soothingly.  But  before  he  could 
withdraw,  M'Adam  had  jerked  his  weapon  to 
his  shoulder  and  aimed  it  full  at  his  enemy's 
head. 

The  threatened  man  looked  down  the  gun's 
great  quivering  mouth,  wholly  unmoved. 

"Yo'  mun  hold  it  steadier,  little  mon,  if 
yo'd  hit!"  he  said  grimly.  "There,  I'll  coom 
help  yo'!"  He  withdrew  slowly ;  and  all  the 
time  was  wondering  where  the  gray  dog  was. 

In  another  moment  he  was  downstairs,  un- 
doing the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  door.  On  the 
other  side  stood  M'Adam,  his  blunderbuss  at 
his  shoulder,  his  finger  trembling  on  the  trig- 
ger, waiting. 

"Hi,  Master!  Stop,  or  yo're  dead!"  roared 
a  voice  from  the  loft  on  the  other  side  the  yard. 

"Feyther!  feyther!  git  yo' back!"  screamed 
Maggie,  who  saw  it  all  from  the  window  above 
the  door. 

Their  cries  were  too  late !  The  blunderbuss 
went  off  with  a  roar,  belching  out  a  storm  of 
sparks  and  smoke.  The  shot  peppered  the 
door  like  hail,  and  the  whole  yard  seemed  for 
a  moment  wrapped  in  flame. 

"Aw!  oh!  ma  gummy!  A'm  waounded! 
A'm  a  goner!  A'm  shot!  'Elp!  Murder! 
Eh!  Oh!"  bellowed  a  lusty  voice — and  it  was 
not  James  Moore's. 

The  little  man,  the  cause  of  the  uproar,  lay 


276  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

quite  still  upon  the  ground,  with  another  fig- 
ure standing  over  him.  As  he  had  stood,  fin- 
ger on  trigger,  waiting  for  that  last  bolt  to  be 
drawn,  a  gray  form,  shooting  whence  no  one 
knew,  had  suddenly  and  silently  attacked  him 
from  behind,  and  jerked  him  backward  to  the 
ground.  With  the  shock  of  the  fall  the  blun- 
derbuss had  gone  off. 

The  last  bolt  was  thrown  back  with  a  clat- 
ter, and  the  Master  emerged.  In  a  glance  he 
took  in  the  whole  scene :  the  fallen  man ;  the 
gray  dog;  the  still-smoking  weapon. 

"Yo\  was't,  Bob,  lad?"  he  said.  "I  was 
wonderin'  wheer  yo'  were.  Yo'  came  just 
at  thereet  moment,  as  yo'  aye  do!"  Then,  in 
a  loud  voice,  addressing  the  darkness:  "  Yo're 
not  hurt,  Sam'l  Todd — I  can  tell  that  by  yer 
noise;  it  was  nob 'but  the  shot  off  the  door 
warmed  yo'.  Coom  away  doon  and  gie  me  a 
hand." 

He  walked  up  to  M'Adam,  who  still  lay 
gasping  on  the  ground.  The  shock  of  the 
fall  and  recoil  of  the  weapon  had  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  the  little  man's  body;  beyond 
that  he  was  barely  hurt. 

The  Master  stood  over  his  fallen  enemy  and 
looked  sternly  down  at  him. 

"I've  put  up  wi'  more  from  you,  M'Adam, 
than  I  would  from  ony  other  man,"  he  said. 
"But  this  is  too  much — comin'  here  at  night 
wi'  loaded  arms,  scarin'  the  wimmen  and  chil- 
der  oot  o'   their  lives,   and  I  can  but  think 


A  Shot  in  the  Night  277 

meanin'  worse.  If  yo'  were  half  a  man  I'd 
gie  yo'  the  finest  thrashin'  iver  yo'  had  in  yer 
life.  But,  as  yo'  know  well,  I  could  no  more 
hit  yo'  than  I  could  a  woman.  Why  yo've 
got  this  down  on  me  yo'  ken  best.  I  niver 
did  yo'  or  ony  ither  mon  a  harm.  As  to  the 
Cup,  I've  got  it  and  I'm  goin'  to  do  ma  best 
to  keep  it — it's  for  yo'  to  win  it  from  me  if  yo' 
can  o'  Thursday.  As  for  what  yo'  say  o'  Da- 
vid, yo'  know  it's  a  lie.  And  as  for  what  yo're 
drivin'  at  wi'  yer  hints  and  mysteries,  I've  no 
more  idee  than  a  babe  unborn.  Noo  I'm  goin' 
to  lock  yo'  up,  yo're  not  safe  abroad.  I'm 
thinkin'  I'll  ha'  to  hand  ye  o'er  to  the  p'lice." 

With  the  help  of  Sam'l  he  half  dragged, 
half  supported  the  stunned  little  man  across 
the  yard;  and  shoved  him  into  a  tiny  semi- 
subterraneous  room,  used  for  the  storage  of 
coal,  at  the  end  of  the  farm-buildings. 

"  Yo'  think  it  over  that  side,  ma  lad,"  called 
the  Master  grimly,  as  he  turned  the  key,  "  and 
I  will  this."     And  with  that  he  retired  to  bed. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  went  to  release  his 
prisoner.  But  he  was  a  minute  too  late.  For 
scuttling  down  the  slope  and  away  was  a  lit- 
tle black-begrimed,  tottering  figure  with  white 
hair  blowing  in  the  wind.  The  little  man  had 
broken  away  a  wooden  hatchment  which  cov- 
ered a  manhole  in  the  wall  of  his  prison-house, 
squeezed  his  small  body  through,  and  so  es- 
caped. 


278  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

"Happen  it's  as  well,"  thought  the  Master, 
watching  the  flying  figure.  Then,  "  Hi,  Bob, 
lad!"  he  called;  for  the  gray  dog,  ears  back, 
tail  streaming,  was  hurling  down  the  slope  after 
the  fugitive. 

On  the  bridge  M'Adam  turned,  and,  seeing 
his  pursuer  hot  upon  him,  screamed,  missed 
his  footing,  and  fell  with  a  loud  splash  into 
the  stream — almost  in  that  identical  spot  into 
which,  years  before,  he  had  plunged  voluntar- 
ily to  save  Red  Wull. 

On  the  bridge  Owd  Bob  halted  and  looked 
down  at  the  man  struggling  in  the  water  be- 
low. He  made  a  half  move  as  though  to  leap 
in  to  the  rescue  of  his  enemy ;  then,  seeing  it 
was  unnecessary,  turned  and  trotted  back  to 
his  master. 

"Yo'  nob'but  served  him  right,  I'm  think- 
in',"  said  the  Master.  "Like  as  not  he  came 
here  wi'  the  intent  to  mak'  an  end  to  yo'. 
Well,  after  Thursday,  I  pray  God  we'll  ha* 
peace.  It's  gettin'  above  a  joke."  The  two 
turned  back  into  the  yard. 

But  down  below  them,  along  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  for  the  second  time  in  this  story,  a  lit- 
tle dripping  figure  was  tottering  homeward. 
The  little  man  was  crying — the  hot  tears  min- 
gling on  his  cheeks  with  the  undried  waters  of 
the  Wastrel — crying  with  rage,  mortification, 
weariness. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   SHEPHERDS'    TROPHY 

Cup  Day. 

It  broke  calm  and  beautiful,  no  cloud  on 
the  horizon,  no  threat  of  storm  in  the  air;  a 
fitting  day  on  which  the  Shepherds'  Trophy 
must  be  won  outright. 

And  well  it  was  so.  For  never  since  the 
founding  of  the  Dale  Trials  had  such  a  con- 
course been  gathered  together  on  the  North 
bank  of  the  Silver  Lea.  From  the  Highlands 
they  came;  from  the  far  Campbell  country; 
from  the  Peak;  from  the  county  of  many 
acres ;  from  all  along  the  silver  fringes  of  the 
Solway;  assembling  in  that  quiet  corner  of 
the  earth  to  see  the  famous  Gray  Dog  of  Ken- 
muir  fight  his  last  great  battle  for  the  Shep- 
herds' Trophy. 

By  noon  the  gaunt  Scaur  looked  down  on 
such  a  gathering  as  it  had  never  seen.  The 
paddock  at  the  back  of  the  Dalesman's  Daugh- 
ter was  packed  with  a  clammering,  chattering 
multitude :  animated  groups  of  farmers ;  bev- 
ies of  stolid  rustics;  sharp-faced  townsmen; 
loud-voiced  bookmakers;  giggling  girls;  am- 
orous boys, — thrown  together  like  toys  in   a 


280  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

sawdust  bath;  whilst  here  and  there,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd,  a  lonely  man  and  wise- 
faced  dog,  come  from  afar  to  wrest  his  proud 
title  from  the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North. 

At  the  back  of  the  enclosure  was  drawn  up 
a  formidable  array  of  carts  and  carriages,  vary- 
ing as  much  in  quality  and  character  as  did 
their  owners.  There  was  the  squire's  landau 
rubbing  axle-boxes  wTith  Jem  Burton's  modest 
moke-cart;  and  there  Viscount  Birdsaye's  flar- 
ing barouche  side  by  side  with  the  red-wheeled 
wagon  of  Kenmuir. 

In  the  latter,  Maggie,  sad  and  sweet  in  her 
simple  summer  garb,  leant  over  to  talk  to  Lady 
Eleanour;  while  golden-haired  wee  Anne,  de- 
lighted with  the  surging  crowd  around,  trotted 
about  the  wagon,  waving  to  her  friends,  and 
shouting  from  very  joyousness. 

Thick  as  flies  clustered  that  motley  assembly 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Silver  Lea.  While 
on  the  other  side  the  stream  was  a  little  group 
of  judges,  inspecting  the  course. 

The  line  laid  out  ran  thus :  the  sheep  must 
first  be  found  in  the  big  enclosure  to  the  right 
of  the  starting  flag;  then  up  the  slope  and 
away  from  the  spectators;  round  a  flag  and 
obliquely  down  the  hill  again ;  through  a  gap 
in  the  wall ;  along  the  hillside,  parallel  to  the 
Silver  Lea ;  abruptly  to  the  left  through  a  pair 
of  flags — the  trickiest  turn  of  them  all ;  then 
down  the  slope  to  the  pen,  which  was  set  up 
close  to  the  bridge  over  the  stream. 


The  Shepherds'   Trophy         281 

The  proceedings  began  with  the  Local 
Stakes,  won  by  Rob  Saunderson's  veteran, 
Shep.  There  followed  the  Open  Juveniles, 
carried  off  by  Ned  Hoppin's  young  dog.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon  when,  at  length,  the 
great  event  of  the  meeting  was  reached. 

In  the  enclosure  behind  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter  the  clamor  of  the  crowd  increased 
tenfold,  and  the  yells  of  the  bookmakers  were 
redoubled. 

"Walk  up,  gen'lemen,  walk  up!  the  ole 
firm!  Rasper?  Yessir — twenty  to  one  bar 
two!  Twenty  to  one  bar  two!  Bob?  What 
price  Bob?  Even  money,  sir— no,  not  a 
penny  longer,  couldn't  do  it!  Red  Wull?  '00 
says  Red  Wull?" 

On  the  far  side  the  stream  is  clustered  about 
the  starting  flag  the  finest  array  of  sheep-dogs 
ever  seen  together. 

"  I've  never  seen  such  a  field,  and  I've  seen 
fifty,"  is  Parson  Leggy 's  verdict. 

There,  beside  the  tall  form  of  his  master, 
stands  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  the  observed  of 
all.  His  silvery  brush  fans  the  air,  and  he 
holds  his  dark  head  high  as  he  scans  his  chal- 
lengers, proudly  conscious  that  to-day  will 
make  or  mar  his  fame.  Below  him,  the  mean- 
looking,  smooth-coated  black  dog  is  the  un- 
beaten Pip,  winner  of  the  renowned  Cambrian 
Stakes  at  Llangollen — as  many  think  the  best 
of  all  the  good  dogs  that  have  come  from 
sheep-dotted  Wales.     Beside  him,  that  hand- 


282  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

some  sable  collie,  with  the  tremendous  coat 
and  slash  of  white  on  throat  and  face,  is  the 
famous  MacCallum  More,  fresh  from  his  vic- 
tory at  the  Highland  meeting.  The  cobby, 
brown  dog,  seeming  of  many  breeds,  is  from 
the  land  o*  the  Tykes — Merry,  on  whom  the 
Yorkshiremen  are  laying  as  though  they  loved 
him.  And  Jess,  the  wiry  black-and-tan,  is  the 
favorite  of  the  men  of  the  Derwent  and  Dove. 
Tupper's  big  blue  Rasper  is  there;  Londes- 
ley's  Lassie;  and  many  more — too  many  to 
mention:  big  and  small,  grand  and  mean, 
smooth  and  rough — and  not  a  bad  dog  there. 

And  alone,  his  back  to  the  others,  stands 
a  little  bowed,  conspicuous  figure — Adam 
M'Adam;  while  the  great  dog  beside  him,  a 
hideous  incarnation  of  scowling  defiance,  is 
Red  Wull,  the  Terror  o'  the  Border. 

The  Tailless  Tyke  had  already  run  up  his 
fighting  colors.  For  MacCallum  More,  go- 
ing up  to  examine  this  forlorn  great  adver- 
sary, had  conceived  for  him  a  violent  antip- 
athy, and,  straightway,  had  spun  at  him  with 
all  the  fury  of  the  Highland  cateran,  who  at- 
tacks first  and  explains  afterward.  Red  Wull, 
forthwith,  had  turned  on  him  with  savage,  si- 
lent gluttony ;  bob-tailed  Rasper  was  racing  up 
to  join  in  the  attack ;  and  in  another  second 
the  three  would  have  been  locked  inseparably 
. — but  just  in  time  M'Adam  intervened. 

One  of  the  judges  came  hurrying  up. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,"  he  cried  angrily,   "if  that 


The  Shepherds'  Trophy         283 

brute  of  yours  gets  fighting  again,  hang  me 
if  I  don't  disqualify  him!  Only  last  year  at 
the  Trials  he  killed  the  young  Cossack  dog." 

A  dull  flush  of  passion  swept  across  M' Ad- 
am's face.  "Come  here,  Wullie!"  he  called. 
"Gin  yon  Hielant  tyke  attacks  ye  agin,  ye're 
to  be  disqualified." 

He  was  unheeded.  The  battle  for  the  Cup 
had  begun — little  Pip  leading  the  dance. 

On  the  opposite  slope  the  babel  had  subsided 
now.  Hucksters  left  their  wares,  and  book- 
makers their  stools,  to  watch  the  struggle. 
Every  eye  was  intent  on  the  moving  figures  of 
man  and  dog  and  three  sheep  over  the  stream. 

One  after  one  the  competitors  ran  their 
course  and  penned  their  sheep — there  was  no 
single  failure.  And  all  received  their  just 
meed  of  applause,  save  only  Adam  M* Adam's 
Red  Wull. 

Last  of  all,  when  Owd  Bob  trotted  out  to 
uphold  his  title,  there  went  up  such  a  shout  as 
made  Maggie's  wan  cheeks  to  blush  with  pleas- 
ure, and  wee  Anne  to  scream  right  lustily. 

His  was  an  incomparable  exhibition.  Sheep 
should  be  humored  rather  than  hurried; 
coaxed,  rather  than  coerced.  And  that  sheep- 
dog has  attained  the  summit  of  his  art  who 
subdues  his  own  personality  and  leads  his 
sheep  in  pretending  to  be  led.  Well  might 
the  bosoms  of  the  Dalesmen  swell  with  pride 
as  they  watched  their  favorite  at  his  work; 
well  might  Tammas  pull  out  that  hackneyed 


284  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

phrase,  "  The  brains  of  a  mon  and  the  way  of 
a  woman" ;  well  might  the  crowd  bawl  their 
enthusiasm,  and  Long  Kirby  puff  his  cheeks 
and  rattle  the  money  in  his  trouser  pockets. 

But  of  this  part  it  is  enough  to  say  that  Pip, 
Owd  Bob,  and  Red  Wull  were  selected  to  fight 
out  the  struggle  afresh. 

The  course  was  altered  and  stiffened.  On 
the  far  side  the  stream  it  remained  as  before : 
up  the  slope;  round  a  flag;  down  the  hill 
again;  through  the  gap  in  the  wall;  along 
the  hillside;  down  through  the  two  flags ,- 
turn;  and  to  the  stream  again.  But  the  pen 
was  removed  from  its  former  position,  carried 
over  the  bridge,  up  the  near  slope,  and  the 
hurdles  put  together  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
spectators. 

The  sheep  had  to  be  driven  over  the  plank- 
bridge,  and  the  penning  done  beneath  the  very 
nose  of  the  crowd.  A  stiff  course,  if  ever  there 
was  one;  and  the  time  allowed,  ten  short  min> 
utes. 

•  •••••• 

The  spectators  hustled  and  elbowed  in  their 
endeavors  to  obtain  a  good  position.  And 
well  they  might;  for  about  to  begin  was  the 
finest  exhibition  of  sheep-handling  any  man 
there  was  ever  to  behold. 

•  •••••• 

Evan  Jones  and  little  Pip  led  off. 


The  Shepherds*  Trophy         285 

Those  two,  who  had  won  on  many  a  hard- 
fought  field,  worked  together  as  they  had 
never  worked  before.  Smooth  and  swift,  like 
a  yacht  in  Southampton  Water;  round  the 
flag,  through  the  gap,  they  brought  their 
sheep.  Down  between  the  two  flags — accom- 
plishing right  well  that  awkward  turn;  and 
back  to  the  bridge. 

There  they  stopped:  the  sheep  would  not 
face  that  narrow  way.  Once,  twice,  and  again, 
they  broke;  and  each  time  the  gallant  little 
Pip,  his  tongue  out  and  tail  quivering,  brought 
them  back  to  the  bridge-head. 

At  length  one  faced  it ;  then  another,  and — 
it  was  too  late.  Time  was  up.  The  judges 
signalled;  and  the  Welshman  called  off  his 
dog  and  withdrew. 

Out  of  sight  of  mortal  eye,  in  a  dip  of  the 
ground,  Evan  Jones  sat  down  and  took  the 
small  dark  head  between  his  knees — and  you 
may  be  sure  the  dog's  heart  was  heavy  as  the 
man's.  "We  did  our  pest,  Pip,"  he  cried 
brokenly,  "  but  we're  peat — the  first  time  ever 
we've  been!" 

•  •••••• 

No  time  to  dally. 

James  Moore  and  Owd  Bob  were  off  on  their 
last  run. 

No  applause  this  time;  not  a  voice  was 
raised ;  anxious  faces ;  twitching  fingers ;  the 
whole  crowd  tense  as  a  stretched  wire.  A 
false    turn,  a    wilful    sheep,  a    cantankerous 


286  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

judge,  and  the  gray  dog  would  be  beat.  And 
not  a  man  there  but  knew  it. 

Yet  over  the  stream  master  and  dog  went 
about  their  business  never  so  quiet,  never 
so  collected;  for  all  the  world  as  though 
they  were  rounding  up  a  flock  on  the  Muir 
Pike. 

The  old  dog  found  his  sheep  in  a  twinkling, 
and  a  wild,  scared  trio  they  proved.  Round- 
ing the  first  flag,  one  bright-eyed  wether  made 
a  dash  for  the  open.  He  was  quick;  but  the 
gray  dog  was  quicker:  a  splendid  recover, 
and  a  sound  like  a  sob  from  the  watchers  on 
the  hill. 

Down  the  slope  they  came  for  the  gap  in 
the  wall.  A  little  below  the  opening,  James 
Moore  took  his  stand  to  stop  and  turn  them; 
while  a  distance  behind  his  sheep  loitered 
Owd  Bob,  seeming  to  follow  rather  than  drive, 
yet  watchful  of  every  movement  and  anticipat- 
ing it.  On  he  came,  one  eye  on  his  master, 
the  other  on  his  sheep;  never  hurrying  them, 
never  flurrying  them,  yet  bringing  them  rap- 
idly along. 

No  word  was  spoken;  barely  a  gesture 
made;  yet  they  worked,  master  and  dog,  like 
one  divided. 

Through  the  gap,  along  the  hill  parallel  to 
the  spectators,  playing  into  one  another's 
hands  like  men  at  polo. 

A  wide  sweep  for  the  turn  at  the  flags,  and 
the  sheep  wheeled  as  though  at  the  word  of 


The  Shepherds'  Trophy         287 

command,  dropped  through  them,  and  trav- 
elled rapidly  for  the  bridge. 

"Steady!"  whispered  the  crowd. 

"Steady,  man!"  muttered  Parson  Leggy. 

"Hold  'em,  for  God's  sake!"  croaked  Kirby 
huskily.  D n !  I  knew  it !  I  saw  it  com- 
ing!" 

The  pace  down  the  hill  had  grown  quicker 
— too  quick.  Close  on  the  bridge  the  three 
sheep  made  an  effort  to  break.  A  dash — and 
two  were  checked;  but  the  third  went  away 
like  the  wind,  and  after  him  Owd  Bob,  a  gray 
streak  against  the  green. 

Tammas  was  cursing  silently;  Kirby  was 
white  to  the  lips;  and  in  the  stillness  you 
could  plainly  hear  the  Dalesmen's  sobbing 
breath,  as  it  fluttered  in  their  throats. 

"Gallop!  they  say  he's  old  and  slow!"  mut- 
tered the  Parson.  "Dash!  Look  at  that!" 
For  the  gray  dog,  racing  like  the  Nor'easter 
over  the  sea,  had  already  retrieved  the  fugitive. 

Man  and  dog  were  coaxing  the  three  a  step 
at  a  time  toward  the  bridge. 

One  ventured — the  others  followed. 

In  the  middle  the  leader  stopped  and  tried 
to  turn — and  time  was  flying,  flying,  and  the 
penning  alone  must  take  minutes.  Many  a 
man's  hand  was  at  his  watch,  but  no  one  could 
take  his  eyes  off  the  group  below  him  to 
look. 

"We're  beat!  I've  won  bet,  Tammas!" 
groaned  Sam'l.     (The  two  had  a  long-stand- 


288  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

ing  wager  on  the  matter.)     "  I  alius  knoo  hoo 

'twould  be.     I  alius  told  yo'  th'  owd  tyke " 

Then  breaking  into  a  bellow,  his  honest  face 
crimson  with  enthusiasm:  "Coom  on,  Master! 
Good  for  yo',  Owd  Un!     Yon's  the  style!" 

For  the  gray  dog  had  leapt  on  the  back  of 
the  hindmost  sheep;  it  had  surged  forward 
against  the  next,  and  they  were  over,  and 
making  up  the  slope  amidst  a  thunder  of  ap- 
plause. 

At  the  pen  it  was  a  sight  to  see  shepherd 
and  dog  working  together.  The  Master,  his 
face  stern  and  a  little  whiter  than  its  wont, 
casting  forward  with  both  hands,  herding  the 
sheep  in;  the  gray  dog,  his  eyes  big  and 
bright,  dropping  to  hand ;  crawling  and  creep- 
ing, closer  and  closer. 

"They're  in! — Nay — Ay — dang  me!  Stop 
'er!  Good,  Owd  Un!  Ah-h-h,  they're  in!" 
And  the  last  sheep  reluctantly  passed  through 
— on  the  stroke  of  time. 

A  roar  went  up  from  the  crowd;  Maggie's 
white  face  turned  pink;  and  the  Dalesmen 
mopped  their  wet  brows.  The  mob  surged 
forward,  but  the  stewards  held  them  back. 

"  Back,  please !  Don't  encroach!  M*  Adam's 
to  come!" 

From  the  far  bank  the  little  man  watched 
the  scene.  His  coat  and  cap  were  off,  and  his 
hair  gleamed  white  in  the  sun;  his  sleeves 
were  rolled  up;  and  his  face  was  twitching 
but  set  as  he  stood — ready. 


The  Shepherds'  Trophy         289 

The  hubbub  over  the  stream  at  length  sub- 
sided.    One  of  the  judges  nodded  to  him. 

"  Noo,  Wullie — noo  or  niver !  '  Scots  wha 
hae' !  " — and  they  were  off. 

"Back,  gentlemen!  back!  He's  off — he's 
coming!     M*  Adam's  coming!" 

They  might  well  shout  and  push;  for  the 
great  dog  was  on  to  his  sheep  before  they 
knew  it;  and  they  went  away  with  a  rush, 
with  him  right  on  their  backs.  Up  the  slope 
they  swept  and  round  the  first  flag,  already 
galloping.  Down  the  hill  for  the  gap,  and 
M'  Adam  was  flying  ahead  to  turn  them.  But 
they  passed  him  like  a  hurricane,  and  Red 
Wull  was  in  front  with  a  rush  and  turned 
them  alone. 

"  M'  Adam  wins !  Five  to  four  M'  Adam !  I 
lay  agin  Owd  Bob!"  rang  out  a  clear  voice  in 
the  silence. 

Through  the  gap  they  rattled,  ears  back, 
feet  twinkling  like  the  wings  of  driven  grouse. 

"He's  lost  'em!  They'll  break!  They're 
away!"  was  the  cry. 

Sam'l  was  half  up  the  wheel  of  the  Kenmuir 
wagon ;  every  man  was  on  his  toes ;  ladies  were 
standing  in  their  carriages;  even  Jim  Mason's 
face  flushed  with  momentary  excitement. 

The  sheep  were  tearing  along  the  hillside, 
all  together,  like  a  white  scud.  After  them, 
galloping  like  a  Waterloo  winner,  raced  Red 
Wull.  And  last  of  all,  leaping  over  the 
ground  like  a  demoniac,  making  not  for  the 


290  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

two  flags,  but  the  plank-bridge,  the  white- 
haired,  figure  of  M'Adam. 

"He's  beat!  The  Killer's  beat!"  roared  a 
strident  voice. 

"  M'  Adam  wins !  Five  to  four  M'  Adam !  I 
lay  agin  Owd  Bob!"  rang  out  the  clear  reply. 

Red  Wull  was  now  racing  parallel  to  the 
fugitives  and  above  them.  All  four  were 
travelling  at  a  terrific  rate ;  while  the  two  flags 
were  barely  twenty  yards  in  front,  below  the 
line  of  flight  and  almost  parallel  to  it.  To 
effect  the  turn  a  change  of  direction  must  be 
made  almost  through  a  right  angle. 

"He's  beat!  he's  beat!  M' Adam's  beat! 
Can't  make  it  nohow!"  was  the  roar. 

From  over  the  stream  a  yell — 

"Turn  'em,  Wullie!" 

At  the  word  the  great  dog  swerved  down  on 
the  flying  three.  They  turned,  still  at  the  gal- 
lop, like  a  troop  of  cavalry,  and  dropped,  clean 
and  neat,  between  the  flags ;  and  down  to  the 
stream  they  rattled,  passing  M'Adam  on  the 
way  as  though  he  was  standing. 

"Weel  done,  Wullie!"  came  the  scream 
from  the  far  bank ;  and  from  the  crowd  went 
up  an  involuntary  burst  of  applause. 

"Ma  word!" 

"Didyo'  see  that?" 

"By  gob!" 

It  was  a  turn,  indeed,  of  which  the  smartest 
team  in  the  galloping  horse-gunners  might 
well   have  been  proud.     A  shade   later,   and 


The  Shepherds'  Trophy         291 

they  must  have  overshot  the  mark ;  a  shade 
sooner,  and  a  miss. 

"He's  not  been  two  minutes  so  far.  We're 
beaten — don't  you  think  so,  Uncle  Leggy?" 
asked  Muriel  Sylvester,  looking  up  piteously 
into  the  parson's  face. 

"It's  not  what  I  think,  my  dear;  it's  what 
the  judges  think,"  the  parson  replied;  and 
what  he  thought  their  verdict  would  be  was 
plainly  writ  on  his  face  for  all  to  read. 

Right  on  to  the  centre  of  the  bridge  the 
leading  sheep  galloped  and — stopped  abruptly. 

Up  above  in  the  crowd  there  was  utter  si- 
lence ;  staring  eyes ;  rigid  fingers.  The  sweat 
was  dripping  off  Long  Kirby's  face;  and,  at 
the  back,  a  green-coated  bookmaker  slipped 
his  note-book  in  his  pocket,  and  glanced  be- 
hind him.  James  Moore,  standing  in  front  of 
them  all,  was  the  calmest  there. 

Red  Wull  was  not  to  be  denied.  Like  his 
forerunner  he  leapt  on  the  back  of  the  hind- 
most sheep.  But  the  red  dog  was  heavy 
where  the  gray  was  light.  The  sheep  stag- 
gered, slipped,  and  fell. 

Almost  before  it  had  touched  the  water, 
M'Adam,  his  face  afire  and  eyes  flaming,  was 
in  the  stream.  In  a  second  he  had  hold  of 
the  struggling  creature,  and,  with  an  almost 
superhuman  effort,  had  half  thrown,  half 
shoved  it  on  to  the  bank. 

Again  a  tribute  of  admiration,  led  by  James 
Moore. 


202  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  Kttle  man  scrambled,  panting,  on  to 
the  bank  and  raced  after  sheep  and  dog.  His 
face  was  white  beneath  the  perspiration;  his 
breath  came  in  quavering  gasps ;  his  trousers 
were  wet  and  clinging  to  his  legs;  he  was 
trembling  in  every  limb,  and  yet  indomitable. 

They  were  up  to  the  pen,  and  the  last  wres- 
tle began.  The  crowd,  silent  and  motionless, 
craned  forward  to  watch  the  uncanny,  white- 
haired  little  man  and  the  huge  dog,  working 
so  close  below  them.  M' Adam's  face  was 
white;  his  eyes  staring,  unnaturally  bright; 
his  bent  body  projected  forward;  and  he 
tapped  with  his  stick  on  the  ground  like  a 
blind  man,  coaxing  the  sheep  in.  And  the 
Tailless  Tyke,  his  tongue  out  and  flanks  heav- 
ing, crept  and  crawled  and  worked  up  to 
the  opening,  patient  as  he  had  never  been 
before. 

They  were  in  at  last. 

There  was  a  lukewarm,  half-hearted  cheer: 
then  silence. 

Exhausted  and  trembling,  the  little  man 
leant  against  the  pen,  one  hand  on  it ;  while 
Red  Wull,  his  flanks  still  heaving,  gently 
licked  the  other.  Quite  close  stood  James 
Moore  and  the  gray  dog ;  above  was  the  black 
wall  of  people,  utterly  still ;  below,  the  judges 
comparing  notes.  In  the  silence  you  could 
almost  hear  the  panting  of  the  crowd. 

Then  one  of  the  judges  went  up  to  James 
Moore  and  shook  him  by  the  hand. 


The  Shepherds'   Trophy         293 

The  gray  dog  had  won.  Owd  Bob  o'  Ken- 
muir  had  won  the  Shepherds'  Trophy  out- 
right. 

A  second's  palpitating  silence;  a  woman's 
hysterical  laugh, — and  a  deep-mouthed  bellow 
rent  the  expectant  air:  shouts,  screams,  hat- 
tossings,  back-clappings  blending  in  a  din  that 
made  the  many-winding  waters  of  the  Silver 
Lea  quiver  and  quiver  again. 

Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir  had  won  the  Shep- 
herds' Trophy  outright. 

Maggie's  face  flushed  a  scarlet  hue.  Wee 
Anne  flung  fat  arms  toward  her  triumphant 
Bob,  and  screamed  with  the  best.  Squire  and 
parson,  each  red-cheeked,  were  boisterously 
shaking  hands.  Long  Kirby,  who  had  not 
prayed  for  thirty  years,  ejaculated  with  heart- 
felt earnestness,  "Thank  God!"  Sam'l  Todd 
bellowed  in  Tammas's  ear,  and  almost  slew 
him  with  his  mighty  buffets.  Among  the 
Dalesmen  some  laughed  like  drunken  men; 
some  cried  like  children;  all  joined  in  that 
roaring  song  of  victory. 

To  little  M'  Adam,  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  crowd,  that  storm  of  cheering  came  as  the 
first  announcement  of  defeat. 

A  wintry  smile,  like  the  sun  over  a  March 
sea,  crept  across  his  face. 

"We  might  a  kent  it,  Wullie,"  he  muttered, 
soft  and  low.  The  tension  loosed,  the  battle 
lost,  the  little  man  almost  broke  down.  There 
were  red  dabs  of  color  in  his  face ;    his  eyes 


294  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

were  big ;   his  lips  pitifully  quivering ;   lie  was 
near  to  sobbing. 

An  old  man — utterly  alone — he  had  staked 
his  all  on  a  throw — and  lost. 

Lady  Eleanour  marked  the  forlorn  little  fig- 
ure, standing  solitary  on  the  fringe  of  the  up- 
roarious mob.  She  noticed  the  expression  on 
his  face ;  and  her  tender  heart  went  out  to  the 
lone  man  in  his  defeat. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,"  she  said  timidly,  "won't 
you  come  and  sit  down  in  the  tent?  You  look 
so  tired !  I  can  find  you  a  corner  where  no  one 
shall  disturb  you." 

The  little  man  wrenched  roughly  away. 
The  unexpected  kindness,  coming  at  that  mo- 
ment, was  almost  too  much  for  him.  A  few 
paces  off  he  turned  again. 

"It's  reel  kind  o'  yer  ladyship,"  he  said 
huskily;  and  tottered  away  to  be  alone  with 
Red  Wull. 

•  •••••• 

Meanwhile  the  victors  stood  like  rocks  in 
the  tideway.  About  them  surged  a  continu- 
ally changing  throng,  shaking  the  man's  hand, 
patting  the  dog. 

Maggie  had  carried  wee  Anne  to  tender 
her  congratulations;  Long  Kirby  had  come; 
Tammas,  Saunderson,  Hoppin,  Tupper,  Lon- 
desley — all  but  Jim  Mason;  and  now,  elbow- 
ing through  the  press,  came  squire  and  parson. 


The  Shepherds'  Trophy         295 

"Well  done,  James!  well  done,  indeed! 
Knew  you'd  win!  told  you  so — eh,  eh!" 
Then  facetiously  to  Owd  Bob :  "  Knew  you 
would,  Robert,  old  man!  Ought  to — Robert 
the  Dev — mustn't  be  a  naughty  boy — eh,  eh!" 

"The  first  time  ever  the  Dale  Cup's  been 
won  outright!"  said  the  Parson,  "and  I  dare- 
say it  never  will  again.  And  I  think  Ken- 
muir's  the  very  fittest  place  for  its  final  home, 
and  a  Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir  for  its  winner." 

"Oh,  by  the  by!"  burst  in  the  squire. 
"I've  fixed  the  Manor  dinner  for  to-day  fort- 
night, James.  Tell  Saunderson  and  Tupper, 
will  you?  Want  all  the  tenants  there."  He 
disappeared  into  the  crowd,  but  in  a  minute 
had  fought  his  way  back.  "I'd  forgotten 
something !  "  he  shouted.  "  Tell  your  Maggie 
perhaps  you'll  have  news  for  her  after  it — eh! 
eh!" — and  he  was  gone  again. 

Last  of  all,  James  Moore  was  aware  of  a 
white,  blotchy,  grinning  face  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  maun  congratulate  ye,  Mr.  Moore.  Ye've 
beat  us — you  and  the  gentlemen — judges." 

"  'Twas  a  close  thing,  M'Adam,"  the  other 
answered.  "An'  yo'  made  a  gran'  fight.  In 
ma  life  I  niver  saw  a  finer  turn  than  yours  by 
the  two  flags  yonder.  I  hope  yo'  bear  no 
malice." 

"Malice!  Me?  Is  it  likely?  Na,  na.  'Do 
onto  ivery  man  as  he  does  onto  you — and 
somethin'  over, '  that's  my  motter.  I  owe  ye 
mony   a  good   turn,   which   I'll   pay   ye  yet. 


296  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Na,  na;  there's  nae  good  fechtin'  again  fate 
— and  the  judges.  Weel,  I  wush  you  well  o* 
yer  victory.  Aiblins  'twill  be  oor  turn  next." 
Then  a  rush,  headed  by  Sam'l,  roughly 
hustled  the  one  away  and  bore  the  other  off 
on  its  shoulders  in  boisterous  triumph. 

In  giving  the  Cup  away,  Lady  Eleanour  made 
a  prettier  speech  than  ever.  Yet  all  the  while 
she  was  haunted  by  a  white,  miserable  face; 
and  all  the  while  she  was  conscious  of  two 
black  moving  dots  in  the  Murk  Muir  Pass  op- 
posite her — solitary,  desolate,  a  contrast  to  the 
huzzaing  crowd  around. 

•  •••••• 

That  is  how  the  champion  challenge  Dale 
Cup,  the  world-known  Shepherds'  Trophy, 
came  to  wander  no  more ;  won  outright  by  the 
last  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir — Owd  Bob. 

Why  he  was  the  last  of  the  Gray  Dogs  is 
now  to  be  told. 


PART  VI 


THE   BLACK   KILLER 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

RED-HANDED 

The  sun  was  hiding  behind  the  Pike.  Over 
the  lowlands  the  feathery  breath  of  night  hov- 
ered still.  And  the  hillside  was  shivering  in 
the  chillness  of  dawn. 

Down  on  the  silvery  sward  beside  the  Stony 
Bottom  there  lay  the  ruffled  body  of  a  dead 
sheep.  All  about  the  victim  the  dewy  ground 
was  dark  and  patchy  like  dishevelled  velvet; 
bracken  trampled  down ;  stones  displaced  as 
though  by  striving  feet ;  and  the  whole  spotted 
with  the  all-pervading  red. 

A  score  yards  up  the  hill,  in  a  writhing  con- 
fusion of  red  and  gray,  two  dogs  at  death- 
grips.  While  yet  higher,  a  pack  of  wild- 
eyed  hill-sheep  watched,  fascinated,  the  bloody 
drama. 

The  fight  raged.  Red  and  gray,  blood-spat- 
tered, murderous-eyed ;  the  crimson  froth  drip- 
ping from  their  jaws;  now  rearing  high  with 
arching  crests  and  wrestling  paws ;  now  rolling 
over  in  tumbling,  tossing,  worrying  disorder — 
the  two  fought  out  their  blood-feud. 

Above,  the  close-packed  flock  huddled  and 
stamped,  ever  edging  nearer  to  watch  the  is- 
sue.    Just  so  must  the  women  of  Rome  have 


300  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

craned  round  the  arenas  to  see  two  men  striv- 
ing in  death-struggle. 

The  first  cold  flicker  of  dawn  stole  across 
the  green.  The  red  eye  of  the  morning  peered 
aghast  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Pike.  And 
from  the  sleeping  dale  there  arose  the  yodling 
of  a  man  driving  his  cattle  home. 

Day  was  upon  them. 

James  Moore  was  waked  by  a  little  whim- 
pering cry  beneath  his  window.  He  leapt  out 
of  bed  and  rushed  to  look ;  for  well  he  knew 
'twas  not  for  nothing  that  the  old  dog  was 
calling. 

"Lord  o'  mercy!  whativer's  come  to  yo', 
Owd  Un?"  he  cried  in  anguish.  And,  in- 
deed, his  favorite,  war-daubed  almost  past 
recognition,  presented  a  pitiful  spectacle. 

In  a  moment  the  Master  was  downstairs 
and  out,  examining  him. 

"  Poor  old  lad,  yo'  have  caught  it  this  time!" 
he  cried.  There  was  a  ragged  tear  on  the 
dog's  cheek;  a  deep  gash  in  his  throat  from 
which  the  blood  still  welled;  staining  the  white 
escutcheon  on  his  chest ;  while  head  and  neck 
were  clotted  with  the  red. 

Hastily  the  Master  summoned  Maggie.  Af- 
ter her,  Andrew  came  hurrying  down.  And  a 
little  later  a  tiny,  night-clad,  naked-footed  fig- 
ure appeared  in  the  door,  wide-eyed,  and  then 
fled,  screaming. 

They  doctored  the  old  warrior  on  the  table 


Red-Handed  301 

in  the  kitchen.  Maggie  tenderly  washed  his 
wounds,  and  dressed  them  with  gentle,  pity- 
ing fingers ;  and  he  stood  all  the  while  grate- 
ful yet  fidgeting,  looking  up  into  his  master's 
face  as  if  imploring  to  be  gone. 

"  He  mun  a  had  a  rare  tussle  wi'  some  one — 
eh,  dad?"  said  the  girl,  as  she  worked. 

"Ay;  and  wi'  whom?  'Twasn't  for  nowt 
he  got  fightin',  I  war'nt.     Nay;   he's  a  tale  to 

tell,  has  The  Owd  Un,  and Ah-h-h !     I 

thowt  as  much.  Look  'ee!"  For  bathing  the 
bloody  jaws,  he  had  come  upon  a  cluster  of 
tawny  red  hair,  hiding  in  the  corners  of  the 
lips. 

The  secret  was  out.  Those  few  hairs  told 
their  own  accusing  tale.  To  but  one  creature 
in  the  Daleland  could  they  belong—"  Th'  Tail- 
less Tyke." 

"  He  mun  a  bin  trespassin' !"  cried  Andrew. 

"Ay,  and  up  to  some  o'  his  bloody  work, 
I'll  lay  my  life,"  the  Master  answered.  "But 
Th'  Owd  Un  shall  show  us." 

The  old  dog's  hurts  proved  less  severe  than 
had  at  first  seemed  possible.  His  good  gray 
coat,  forest-thick  about  his  throat,  had  never 
served  him  in  such  good  stead.  And  at 
length,  the  wounds  washed  and  sewn  up,  he 
jumped  down  all  in  a  hurry  from  the  table  and 
made  for  the  door. 

"Noo,  owd  lad,  yo'  may  show  us,"  said  the 
Master,  and,  with  Andrew,  hurried  after  him 
down   the   hill,    along  the   stream,  and   over 


302  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

Langholm  How.  And  as  they  neared  the 
Stony  Bottom,  the  sheep,  herding  in  groups, 
raised  frightened  heads  to  stare. 

Of  a  sudden  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies  rose, 
buzzing,  up  before  them ;  and  there  in  a  dim- 
ple of  the  ground  lay  a  murdered  sheep.  De- 
serted by  its  comrades,  the  glazed  eyes  staring 
helplessly  upward,  the  throat  horribly  wor- 
ried, it  slept  its  last  sleep. 

The  matter  was  plain  to  see.  At  last  the 
Black  Killer  had  visited  Kenmuir. 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  said  the  Master,  stand- 
ing over  the  mangled  body.  "Well,  it's  the 
worst  night's  work  ever  the  Killer  done.  I 
reck'n  Th'  Owd  Un  come  on  him  while  he 
was  at  it;  and  then  they  fought.  And,  ma 
word!  it  mun  ha'  bin  a  fight  too."  For  all 
around  were  traces  of  that  terrible  struggle : 
the  earth  torn  up  and  tossed,  bracken  up- 
rooted, and  throughout  little  dabs  of  wool  and 
tufts  of  tawny  hair,  mingling  with  dark- 
stained  iron-gray  wisps. 

James  Moore  walked  slowly  over  the  battle- 
field, stooping  down  as  though  he  were  glean- 
ing.    And  gleaning  he  was. 

A  long  time  he  bent  so,  and  at  length  raised 
himself. 

"The  Killer  has  killed  his  last,"  he  mut- 
tered ;  "  Red  Wull  has  run  his  course. "  Then, 
turning  to  Andrew:  "Run  yo'  home,  lad, 
and  fetch  the  men  to  carry  yon  away,"  point- 
ing  to  the  carcase.     "And  Bob,   lad,  yo've 


Red-Handed  303 

done  your  work  for  to-day,  and  right  well  too ; 
go  yo'  home  wi'  him.     I'm  off  to  see  to  this  I" 

He  turned  and  crossed  the  Stony  Bottom. 
His  face  was  set  like  a  rock.  At  length  the 
proof  was  in  his  hand.  Once  and  for  all  the 
hill-country  should  be  rid  of  its  scourge. 

As  he  stalked  up  the  hill,  a  dark  head  ap- 
peared at  his  knee.  Two  big  gray  eyes,  half 
doubting,  half  penitent,  wholly  wistful,  looked 
up  at  him,  and  a  silvery  brush  signalled  a  mute 
request. 

"  Eh,  Owd  Un,  but  yo'  should  ha'  gone  wi' 
Andrew,"  the  Master  said.  "  Hooiver,  as  yo' 
are  here,  come  along."  And  he  strode  away 
up  the  hill,  gaunt  and  menacing,  with  the 
gray  dog  at  his  heels. 

As  they  approached  the  house,  M'  Adam  was 
standing  in  the  door,  sucking  his  eternal  twig. 
James  Moore  eyed  him  closely  as  he  came,  but 
the  sour  face  framed  in  the  door  betrayed  noth- 
ing. Sarcasm,  surprise,  challenge,  were  all 
writ  there,  plain  to  read ;  but  no  guilty  con- 
sciousness of  the  other's  errand,  no  storm  of 
passion  to  hide  a  failing  heart.  If  it  was  act- 
ing it  was  splendidly  done. 

As  man  and  dog  passed  through  the  gap 
in  the  hedge,  the  expression  on  the  little 
man's  face  changed  again.  He  started  for- 
ward. 

"  James  Moore,  as  I  live !"  he  cried,  and  ad- 
vanced with  both  hands  extended,  as  though 
welcoming  a  long-lost  brother.     "  'Deed   and 


304  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

it's  a  weary  while  sin'  ye've  honored  ma 
puir  hoose."  And,  in  fact,  it  was  nigh  twenty 
years.  "  I  tak'  it  gey  kind  in  ye  to  look  in  on 
a  lonely  auld  man.  Come  ben  and  let's  ha'  a 
crack.  James  Moore  kens  weel  hoo  welcome 
he  aye  is  in  ma  bit  biggin'." 

The  Master  ignored  the  greeting. 

"One  o'  ma  sheep  been  killed  back  o'  t' 
Dyke,"  he  announced  shortly,  jerking  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"The  Killer?" 

"The  Killer." 

The  cordiality  beaming  in  every  wrinkle  of 
the  little  man's  face  was  absorbed  in  a  won- 
dering interest ;  and  that  again  gave  place  to 
sorrowful  sympathy. 

"Dear,  dear!  it's  come  to  that,  has  it — at 
last?"  he  said  gently,  and  his  eyes  wandered 
to  the  gray  dog  and  dwelt  mournfully  upon 
him.  "Man,  I'm  sorry — I  canna  tell  ye  I'm 
surprised.  Masel',  I  kent  it  all  alang.  But 
gin  Adam  M'Adam  had  tell't  ye,  ye'd  no  ha' 
believed  him.  Weel,  weel,  he's  lived  his  life, 
gin  ony  dog  iver  did ;  and  noo  he  maun  gang 
where  he's  sent  a  many  before  him.  Puir 
mon!  puir  tyke!"  He  heaved  a  sigh,  pro- 
foundly melancholy,  tenderly  sympathetic. 
Then,  brightening  up  a  little:  "Ye'll  ha' 
come  for  the  gun?" 

James  Moore  listened  to  this  harangue  at 
first  puzzled.  Then  he  caught  the  other's 
meaning,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 


Red-Handed  305 

"Ye  fool,  M'Adam!  did  ye  hear  iver  tell  o' 
a  sheep-dog  worryin'  his  master's  sheep?" 

The  little  man  was  smiling  and  suave  again 
now,  rubbing  his  hands  softly  together. 

"  Ye're  right,  I  never  did.  But  your  dog  is 
not  as  ither  dogs — 'There's  none  like  him — 
none,'  I've  heard  ye  say  so  yersel,  mony  a 
time.  An'  I'm  wi'  ye.  There's  none  like 
him — for  devilment."  His  voice  began  to 
quiver  and  his  face  to  blaze.  "It's  his  cursed 
cunning  that's  deceived  ivery  one  but  me — 
whelp  o'  Satan  that  he  is!"  He  shouldered 
up  to  his  tall  adversary.  "  If  not  him,  wha 
else  had  done  it?"  he  asked,  looking  up  into 
the  other's  face  as  if  daring  him  to  speak. 

The  Master's  shaggy  eyebrows  lowered. 
He  towered  above  the  other  like  the  Muir  Pike 
above  its  surrounding  hills. 

"Wha,  ye  ask?"  he  replied  coldly,  "and  I 
answer  you.  Your  Red  Wull,  M'Adam,  your 
Red  Wull.  It's  your  Wull's  the  Black  Killer ! 
It's  your  Wull's  bin  the  plague  o'  the  land  these 
months  past !  It's  your  Wull's  killed  ma  sheep 
back  o'  yon !" 

At  that  all  the  little  man's  affected  good- 
humor  fled. 

"Ye  lee,  mon!  ye  lee!"  he  cried  in  a  dread- 
ful scream,  dancing  up  to  his  antagonist.  "I 
knoo  hoo  'twad  be.  I  said  so.  I  see  what 
ye '  re  at .  Ye '  ve  found  at  last — blind  that  ye '  ve 
been! — that  it's  yer  ain  hell's  tyke  that's  the 
Killer;  and  noo  ye  think  by  yerleein'  impita- 


306  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

tions  to  throw  the  blame  on  ma  Wullie.  Ye 
rob  me  o'  ma  Cup,  ye  rob  me  o'  ma  son,  ye 
wrang  me  in  ilka  thing;  there's  but  ae  thing 
left  me — Wullie.  And  noo  ye're  set  on  takin' 
him  awa\     But  ye  shall  not — I'll  kill  ye  first !" 

He  was  all  a-shake,  bobbing  up  and  down 
like  a  stopper  in  a  soda-water  bottle,  and  al- 
most sobbing. 

"  Ha'  ye  no  wranged  me  enough  wi'  oot 
that?  Ye  lang-leggit  liar,  wi'  yer  skulkin' 
murderin'  tyke!"  he  cried.  "Ye  say  it's  Wul- 
lie. Where's  yer  proof?" — and  he  snapped 
his  fingers  in  the  other's  face. 

The  Master  was  now  as  calm  as  his  foe  was 
passionate.  "Where?"  he  replied  sternly; 
"why,  there!"  holding  out  his  right  hand. 
"Yon's  proof  enough  to  hang  a  hunner'd." 
For  lying  in  his  broad  palm  was  a  little  bun- 
dle of  that  damning  red  hair. 

"Where?" 

"There!" 

"  Let's  see  it !  "  The  little  man  bent  to  look 
closer. 

"There's  for  yer  proof!"  he  cried,  and  spat 
deliberately  down  into  the  other's  naked  palm. 
Then  he  stood  back,  facing  his  enemy  in  a 
manner  to  have  done  credit  to  a  nobler  deed. 

James  Moore  strode  forward.  It  looked  as 
if  he  was  about  to  make  an  end  of  his  miser- 
able adversary,  so  strongly  was  he  moved. 
His  chest  heaved,  and  the  blue  eyes  blazed. 
But  just  as  one  had  thought  to  see  him  take 


Red-Handed  307 

his  foe  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  crush 
him,  who  should  come  stalking  round  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house  but  the  Tailless  Tyke  ? 

A  droll  spectacle  he  made,  laughable  even 
at  that  moment.  He  limped  sorely,  his  head 
and  neck  were  swathed  in  bandages,  and 
beneath  their  ragged  fringe  the  little  eyes 
gleamed  out  fiery  and  bloodshot. 

Round  the  corner  he  came,  unaware  of 
strangers;  then  straightway  recognizing  his 
visitors,  halted  abruptly.  His  hackles  ran  up, 
each  individual  hair  stood  on  end  till  his  whole 
body  resembled  a  new-shorn  wheat-field ;  and 
a  snarl,  like  a  rusty  brake  shoved  hard  down, 
escaped  from  between  his  teeth.  Then  he 
trotted  heavily  forward,  his  head  sinking  low 
and  lower  as  he  came. 

And  Owd  Bob,  eager  to  take  up  the  gage  of 
battle,  advanced,  glad  and  gallant,  to  meet 
him.  Daintily  he  picked  his  way  across  the 
yard,  head  and  tail  erect,  perfectly  self-con- 
tained. Only  the  long  gray  hair  about  his  neck 
stood  up  like  the  ruff  of  a  lady  of  the  court  of 
Queen  Elizabeth. 

But  the  war-worn  warriors  were  not  to  be 
allowed  their  will. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  wad  ye!"  cried  the  little 
man. 

"  Bob,  lad,  coom  in !"  called  the  other.  Then 
he  turned  and  looked  down  at  the  man  beside 
him,  contempt  flaunting  in  every  feature. 

"Well?"  he  said  shortly. 


308  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

M' Adam's  hands  were  opening  and  shut- 
ing ;  his  face  was  quite  white  beneath  the  tan ; 
but  he  spoke  calmly. 

"I'll  tell  ye  the  whole  story,  and  it's  the 
truth,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  was  up  there  the 
morn" — pointing  to  the  window  above — "and 
I  see  Wullie  crouchin'  down  alangside  the 
Stony  Bottom.  (Ye  ken  he  has  the  run  o'  ma 
land  o'  neets,  the  same  as  your  dog.)  In  a 
minnit  I  see  anither  dog  squatterin'  alang  on 
your  side  the  Bottom.  He  creeps  up  to  the 
sheep  on  th'  hillside,  chases  'em,  and  doons 
one.  The  sun  was  risen  by  then,  and  I  see 
the  dog  clear  as  I  see  you  noo.  It  was  that  dog 
there —  I  swear  it !"  His  voice  rose  as  he  spoke, 
and  he  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  Owd  Bob. 

"  Noo,  Wullie !  thinks  I.  And  afore  ye  could 
clap  yer  hands,  Wullie  was  over  the  Bottom 
and  on  to  him  as  he  gorged — the  bloody- 
minded  murderer!  They  fought  and  fought 
— I  could  hear  the  roarin'  o't  where  I  stood.  I 
watched  till  I  could  watch  nae  langer,  and,  all 
in  a  sweat,  I  rin  doon  the  stairs  and  oot.  When 
I  got  there,  there  was  yer  tyke  makin'  fu'  split 
for  Kenmuir,  and  Wullie  comin'  up  the  hill  to 
me.  It's  God's  truth,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Tak' 
him  hame,  James  Moore,  and  let  his  dinner  be 
an  ounce  o'  lead.  'Twill  be  the  best  day's 
work  iver  ye  done." 

The  little  man  must  be  lying — lying  palpa- 
bly. Yet  he  spoke  with  an  earnestness,  a 
seeming  belief  in  his  own  story,  that   might 


Red-Handed 


3°9 


have  convinced  one  who  knew  him  less  well. 
But  the  Master  only  looked  down  on  him  with 
a  great  scorn. 

"  It's  Monday  to-day, "  he  said  coldly.  "  I  gie 
yo'  till  Saturday.  If  yo've  not  done  your  duty 
by  then — and  well  you  know  what  'tis — I  shall 
come  do  it  for  ye.  Ony  gate,  I  shall  come  and 
see.  I'll  remind  ye  agin  o'  Thursday — yo'll 
be  at  the  Manor  dinner,  I  suppose.  *  Noo  I've 
warned  yo',  and  you  know  best  whether  I'm 
in  earnest  or  no.     Bob,  lad!" 

He  turned  away,  but  turned  again. 

"I'm  sorry  for  ye,  but  I've  ma  duty  to  do — 
so've  you.  Till  Saturday  I  shall  breathe  no 
word  to  ony  soul  o'  this  business,  so  that  if  you 
see  good  to  put  him  oot  o'  the  way  wi'oot 
bother,  no  one  need  iver  know  as  hoo  Adam 
M'  Adam's  Red  Wull  was  the  Black  Killer." 

He  turned  away  for  the  second  time.  But 
the  little  man  sprang  after  him,  and  clutched 
him  by  the  arm. 

"Look  ye  here,  James  Moore!"  he  cried  in 
thick,  shaky,  horrible  voice.  "Ye're  big,  I'm 
sma' ;  ye're  Strang,  I'm  weak;  ye've  ivery  one 
to  your  back,  I've  niver  a  one;  you  tell  your 
story,  and  they'll  believe  ye — for  you  gae  to 
church;  I'll  tell  mine,  and  they'll  think  I  lie 
— for  I  dinna.  But  a  word  in  your  ear !  If  iver 
agin  I  catch  ye  on  ma  land,  by  — !" — he  swore 
a  great  oath — "  I'll  no  spare  ye.  You  ken  best 
if  I'm  in  earnest  or  no."  And  his  face  was 
dreadful  to  see  in  its  hideous  determinedness. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

FOR   THE   DEFENCE 

That  night  a  vague  story  was  whispered  in 
the  Sylvester  Arms.  But  Tammas,  on  being 
interrogated,  pursed  his  lips  and  said :  "  Nay, 
I'm  sworn  to  say  nowt."  Which  was  the  old 
man's  way  of  putting  that  he  knew  nowt. 

On  Thursday  morning,  James  Moore  and 
Andrew  came  down  arrayed  in  all  their  best. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  squire's  annual  dinner  to 
his  tenants. 

The  two,  however,  were  not  allowed  to  start 
upon  their  way  until  they  had  undergone  a 
critical  inspection  by  Maggie;  for  the  girl 
liked  her  mankind  to  do  honor  to  Kenmuir 
on  these  occasions.  So  she  brushed  up  An- 
drew, tied  his  scarf,  saw  his  boots  and  hands 
were  clean,  and  titivated  him  generally  till  she 
had  converted  the  ungainly  hobbledehoy  into 
a  thoroughly  "likely  young  mon." 

And  all  the  while  she  was  thinking  of  that 
other  boy  for  whom  on  such  gala  days  she  had 
been  wont  to  perform  like  offices.  And  her 
father,  marking  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
mindful  of  the  squire's  mysterious  hint,  said 
gently : 


For  the  Defence  311 

"Cheer  up,  lass.  Happen  I'll  ha'  news  for 
you  the  night !  " 

The  girl  nodded,  and  smiled  wanly. 
"Happen  so,  dad,"  she  said.     But  in  her 
heart  she  doubted. 

Nevertheless  it  was  with  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance that,  a  little  later,  she  stood  in  the  door 
with  wee  Anne  and  Owd  Bob  and  waved  the 
travellers  Godspeed ;  while  the  golden-haired 
lassie,  fiercely  gripping  the  old  dog's  tail 
with  one  hand  and  her  sister  with  the  other, 
screamed  them  a  wordless  farewell. 

The  sun  had  reached  its  highest  when  the 
two  wayfarers  passed  through  the  gray  portals 
of  the  Manor. 

In  the  stately  entrance  hall,  imposing  with 
all  the  evidences  of  a  long  and  honorable 
line,  were  gathered  now  the  many  tenants 
throughout  the  wide  March  Mere  Estate. 
Weather-beaten,  rent-paying  sons  of  the  soil ; 
most  of  them  native-born,  many  of  them  like 
James  Moore,  whose  fathers  had  for  genera- 
tions owned  and  farmed  the  land  they  now 
leased  at  the  hands  of  the  Sylvesters — there  in 
the  old  hall  they  were  assembled,  a  mighty 
host.  And  apart  from  the  others,  standing 
as  though  in  irony  beneath  the  frown  of  one  of 
those  steel-clad  warriors  who  held  the  door, 
was  little  M'Adam,  puny  always,  paltry  now, 
mocking  his  manhood. 

The  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  opened, 


312  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

and  the  squire  entered,  beaming  on  every 
one. 

"Here  you  are — eh,  eh!  How  are  you  all? 
Glad  to  see  ye!  Good-day,  James !  Good-day, 
Saunderson!  Good-day  to  you  all !  Bringin' a 
friend  with  me — eh,  eh!"  and  he  stood  aside 
to  let  by  his  agent,  Parson  Leggy,  and  last  of 
all,  shy  and  blushing,  a  fair-haired  young 
giant. 

"If  it  bain't  David!"  was  the  cry.  "Eh, 
lad,  we's  fain  to  see  yo* !  And  yo'm  lookin' 
stout,  surely!"  And  they  thronged  about  the 
boy,  shaking  him  by  the  hand,  and  asking  him 
his  story. 

'Twas  but  a  simple  tale.  After  his  flight  on 
the  eventful  night  he  had  gone  south,  drover- 
ing.  He  had  written  to  Maggie,  and  been  sur- 
prised and  hurt  to  receive  no  reply.  In  vain 
he  had  waited,  and,  too  proud  to  write  again, 
had  remained  ignorant  of  his  father's  recovery, 
neither  caring  nor  daring  to  return.  Then, 
by  mere  chance,  he  had  met  the  squire  at  the 
York  cattle-show;  and  that  kind  man,  who 
knew  his  story,  had  eased  his  fears  and  ob- 
tained from  him  a  promise  to  return  as  soon  as 
the  term  of  his  engagement  had  expired.  And 
there  he  was. 

The  Dalesmen  gathered  round  the  boy,  lis- 
tening to  his  tale,  and  in  return  telling  him  the 
home  news,  and  chaffing  him  about  Maggie. 

Of  all  the  people  present,  only  one  seemed 
unmoved,  and  that  was  M'Adam.     When  first 


For  the  Defence  313 

David  had  entered  he  had  started  forward,  a 
flush  of  color  warming  his  thin  cheeks;  but 
no  one  had  noticed  his  emotion;  and  now, 
back  again  beneath  his  armor,  he  watched 
the  scene,  a  sour  smile  playing  about  his  lips. 

"  I  think  the  lad  might  ha'  the  grace  to  come 
and  say  he's  sorry  for  'temptin'  to  murder  me. 
Hooiver  " — with  a  characteristic  shrug — "  I 
suppose  I'm  onraisonable." 

Then  the  gong  rang  out  its  summons,  and 
the  squire  led  the  way  into  the  great  dining- 
hall.  At  the  one  end  of  the  long  table,  heavy 
with  all  the  solid  delicacies  of  such  a  feast,  he 
took  his  seat  with  the  Master  of  Kenmuir  upon 
his  right.  At  the  other  end  was  Parson  Leggy. 
While  down  the  sides  the  stalwart  Dalesmen 
were  arrayed,  with  M*  Adam  a  little  lost  figure 
in  the  centre. 

At  first  they  talked  but  little,  awed  like  chil- 
dren :  knives  plied,  glasses  tinkled,  the  carvers 
had  all  their  work,  only  the  tongues  were  at 
rest.  But  the  squire's  ringing  laugh  and  the 
parson's  cheery  tones  soon  put  them  at  their 
ease ;  and  a  babel  of  voices  rose  and  waxed. 

Of  them  all,  only  M'Adam  sat  silent.  He 
talked  to  no  man,  and  you  may  be  sure  no  one 
talked  to  him.  His  hand  crept  oftener  to  his 
glass  than  plate,  till  the  sallow  face  began  to 
flush,  and  the  dim  eyes  to  grow  unnaturally 
bright. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  meal  there  was  loud 
tapping  on  the  table,  calls  for  silence,  and  men 


314  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

pushed  back  their  chairs.  The  squire  was  on 
his  feet  to  make  his  annual  speech. 

He  started  by  telling  them  how  glad  he  was 
to  see  them  there.  He  made  an  allusion  to  Owd 
Bob  and  the  Shepherds'  Trophy  which  was 
heartily  applauded.  He  touched  on  the  Black 
Killer,  and  said  he  had  a  remedy  to  propose: 
that  Th'  Owd  Un  should  beset  upon  the  crim- 
inal's track — a  suggestion  which  was  received 
with  enthusiasm,  while  M' Adam's  cackling 
laugh  could  be  heard  high  above  the  rest. 

From  that  he  dwelt  upon  the  existing  con- 
dition of  agriculture,  the  depression  in  which 
he  attributed  to  the  late  Radical  Government. 
He  said  that  now  with  the  Conservatives  in 
office,  and  a  ministry  composed  of  "  honorable 
men  and  gentlemen,"  he  felt  convinced  that 
things  would  brighten.  The  Radicals'  one  am- 
bition was  to  set  class  against  class,  landlord 
against  tenant.  Well,  during  the  last  five  hun- 
dred years,  the  Sylvesters  had  rarely  been — he 
was  sorry  to  have  to  confess  it — good  men 
(laughter  and  dissent) ;  but  he  never  yet  heard 
of  the  Sylvester — though  he  shouldn't  say  it — 
who  was  a  bad  landlord  (loud  applause). 

This  was  a  free  country,  and  any  tenant  of 
his  who  was  not  content  (a  voice,  "  'Oo  says 
webain't?") — "thank  you,  thank  you!  " — well, 
there  was  room  for  him  outside.  (Cheers.) 
He  thanked  God  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
that,  during  the  forty  years  he  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  March  Mere  Estate,    there 


For  the  Defence  315 

had  never  been  any  friction  between  him  and 
his  people  (cheers),  and  he  didn't  think  there 
ever  would  be.     (Loud  cheers.) 

"Thank  you,  thank  you!  "  And  his  motto 
was,  "Shun  a  Radical  as  you  do  the  devil!" — 
and  he  was  very  glad  to  see  them  all  there — 
very  glad ;  and  he  wished  to  give  them  a  toast, 
"The  Queen!  God  bless  her!"  and — wait  a 
minute! — with  her  Majesty's  name  to  couple 
— he  was  sure  that  gracious  lady  would  wish 
it— that  of  "  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir !"  Then  he 
sat  down  abruptly  amid  thundering  applause. 

The  toasts  duly  honoured,  James  Moore,  by 
prescriptive  right  as  Master  of  Kenmuir,  rose 
to  answer. 

He  began  by  saying  that  he  spoke  "  as  rep- 
resenting all  the  tenants," — but  he  was  inter- 
rupted. 

"Na,"  came  a  shrill  voice  from  half-way 
down  the  table.  "Ye '11  except  me,  James 
Moore.     I'd  as  lief  be  represented  by  Judas!  " 

There  were  cries  of  "  Hold  ye  gab,  little 
mon !"  and  the  squire's  voice,  "  That'll  do,  Mr. 
M'Adam!" 

The  little  man  restrained  his  tongue,  but  his 
eyes  gleamed  like  a  ferret's;  and  the  Master 
continued  his  speech. 

He  spoke  briefly  and  to  the  point,  in  short 
phrases.  And  all  the  while  M'Adam  kept  up 
a  low- voiced,  running  commentary.  At  length 
he  could  control  himself  no  longer.  Half  ris- 
ing from  his  chair,  he  leant  forward  with  hot 


316  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

face  and  burning  eyes,  and  cried:  "Sit  doon, 
James  Moore !  Hoo  daur  ye  stan'  there  like  an 
honest  man,  ye  whitewashed  sepulchre?  Sit 
doon,  I  say,  or" — threateningly — "wad  ye  hae 
me  come  to  ye?" 

At  that  the  Dalesmen  laughed  uproariously, 
and  even  the  Master's  grim  face  relaxed.  But 
the  squire's  voice  rang  out  sharp  and  stern. 

"  Keep  silence  and  sit  down,  Mr.  M'Adam! 
D'you  hear  me,  sir?  If  I  have  to  speak  to 
you  again  it  will  be  to  order  you  to  leave  the 
room." 

The  little  man  obeyed,  sullen  and  vengeful, 
like  a  beaten  cat. 

The  Master  concluded  his  speech  by  calling 
on  all  present  to  give  three  cheers  for  the 
squire,  her  ladyship,  and  the  young  ladies. 

The  call  was  responded  to  enthusiastically, 
every  man  standing.  Just  as  the  noise  was  at 
its  zenith,  Lady  Eleanour  herself,  with  her  two 
fair  daughters,  glided  into  the  gallery  at  the 
end  of  the  hall ;  whereat  the  cheering  became 
deafening. 

Slowly  the  clamor  subsided.  One  by  one 
the  tenants  sat  down.  At  length  there  was 
left  standing  only  one  solitary  figure  — 
M'Adam. 

His  face  was  set,  and  he  gripped  the  chair  in 
front  of  him  with  thin,  nervous  hands. 

"Mr.  Sylvester,"  he  began  in  low  yet  clear 
voice,  "ye  said  this  is  a  free  country  and  we're 
a*  free  men.     And  that  bein'  so,  I'll  tak'  the 


For  the  Defence  317 

liberty,  wi'  yer  permission,  to  say  a  word.  It's 
maybe  the  last  time  I'll  be  wi'  ye,  so  I  hope 
ye'll  listen  to  me." 

The  Dalesmen  looked  surprised,  and  the 
squire  uneasy.  Nevertheless  he  nodded 
assent. 

The  little  man  straightened  himself.  His 
face  was  tense  as  though  strung  up  to  a  high 
resolve.  All  the  passion  had  fled  from  it,  all 
the  bitterness  was  gone ;  and  left  behind  was 
a  strange,  ennobling  earnestness.  Standing 
there  in  the  silence  of  that  great  hall,  with 
every  eye  upon  him,  he  looked  like  some  pris- 
oner at  the  bar  about  to  plead  for  his  life. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "I've  bin  amang 
ye  noo  a  score  years,  and  I  can  truly  say  there's 
not  a  man  in  this  room  I  can  ca'  'Friend.'  " 
He  looked  along  the  ranks  of  upturned  faces. 
"Ay,  David,  I  see  ye,  and  you,  Mr.  Hornbut, 
and  you,  Mr.  Sylvester — ilka  one  o'  you,  and 
not  one  as'd  back  me  like  a  comrade  gin  a 
trouble  came  upon  me."  There  was  no  rebuke 
in  the  grave  little  voice — it  merely  stated  a 
hard  fact. 

"There's  I  doot  no  one  amang  ye  but  has 
some  one — friend  or  blood — wham  he  can  turn 
to  when  things  are  sair  wi'  him.     I've  no  one. 

'I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care' — 

alane  wi'  Wullie,  who  stands  to  me,  blaw  or 
snaw,  rain  or  shine.  And  whiles  I'm  feared 
he'll  betook  from  me."     He  spoke  this  last 


31 8  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

half  to  himself,  a  grieved,  puzzled  expression 
on  his  face,  as  though  lately  he  had  dreamed 
some  ill  dream. 

"  Forbye  Wullie,  I've  no  friend  on  God's 
earth.  And,  mind  ye,  a  bad  man  aften  mak's 
a  good  friend — but  ye've  never  given  me  the 
chance.  It's  a  sair  thing  that,  gentlemen,  to 
ha*  to  fight  the  battle  o'  life  alane :  no  one  to 
pat  ye  on  the  back,  no  one  to  say'Weel  done.' 
It  hardly  gi'es  a  man  a  chance.  For  gin  he 
does  try  and  yet  fails,  men  never  mind  the 
tryin',  they  only  mark  the  failin'. 

"  I  dinna  blame  ye.  There's  somethin'  bred 
in  me,  it  seems,  as  sets  ivery  one  agin  me. 
It's  the  same  wi'  Wullie  and  the  tykes — they're 
doon  on  him  same  as  men  are  on  me.  I  sup- 
pose we  was  made  so.  Sin'  I  was  a  lad  it's 
aye  bin  the  same.  From  school  days  I've  had 
ivery  one  agin  me. 

"In  ma  life  I've  had  three  friends.  Ma 
mither — and  she  went;  then  ma  wife" — he 
gave  a  great  swallow —  "  and  she's  awa' ;  and  I 
may  say  they're  the  only  two  human  bein's  as 
ha'  lived  on  God's  earth  in  ma  time  that  iver 
tried  to  bear  wi'  me; — and  Wullie.  A  man's 
mither- — a  man's  wife — a  man's  dog!  it's  aften 
a'  he  has  in  this  warld ;  and  the  more  he  prizes 
them  the  more  like  they  are  to  be  took  from 
him."  The  little  earnest  voice  shook,  and  the 
dim  eyes  puckered  and  filled. 

"Sin'  I've  bin  amang  ye — twenty-odd  years 
—can  any  man  here  mind  speakin'  any  word 


For  the  Defence 


3T9 


that  wasna  ill  to  me?"     He  paused;  there  was 
no  reply. 

"I'll  tell  ye.  All  the  time  I've  lived  here 
I've  had  one  kindly  word  spoke  to  me,  and 
that  a  fortnight  agone,  and  not  by  a  man  then 
— by  her  ladyship,  God  bless  her !"  He  glanced 
up  into  the  gallery.  There  was  no  one  visi- 
ble there ;  but  a  curtain  at  one  end  shook  as 
though  it  were  sobbing. 

"  Weel,  I'm  thinkin'  we'll  be  gaein'  in  a  wee# 
while  noo,  Wullie  and  me,  alane  and  thegither, 
as  we've  aye  done.  And  it's  time  we  went. 
Ye've  had  enough  o'  us,  and  it's  no  for  me  to 
blame  ye.  And  when  I'm  gone  what '11  ye  say 
o'  me?  'He  was  a  drunkard.'  lam.  'He  was 
a  sinner.'  I  am.  'He  was  ilka  thing  he 
shouldna  be.'  I  am.  'We're  glad  he's  gone.' 
That's  what  ye '11  say  o'  me.  And  it's  but  ma 
deserts." 

The  gentle,  condemning  voice  ceased,  and 
began  again. 

"That's  what  lam.  Gin  things  had  been 
differ',  aiblins  I'd  ha'  bin  differ'.  D'ye  ken 
Robbie  Burns?  That's  a  man  I've  read,  and 
read,  and  read.  D'ye  ken  why  I  love  him  as 
some  o'  you  do  yer  Bibles?  Because  there's  a 
humanity  about  him.  A  weak  man  hissel',  aye 
slippin',  slippin',  slippin',  and  tryin'  to  haud 
up;  sorrowin'  ae  minute,  sinnin'  the  next; 
doin'  ill  deeds  and  wishin'  'em  undone — just  a 
plain  human  man,  a  sinner.  And  that's  why 
I'm  thinkin  he's  tender  for  us  as  is  like  him. 


320  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

He  understood.  It's  what  he  wrote — after  ain 
o'  his  tumbles,  I'm  thinkin' — that  I  was  goin' 
to  tell  ye : 

*Then  gently  scan  yer  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman, 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human  ' — 

the  doctrine  o'  Charity.  Gie  him  his  chance, 
says  Robbie,  though  he  be  a  sinner.  Mony  a 
mon'd  be  differ',  mony  bad'd  be  gude,  gin  they 
had  but  their  chance.  Gie  'em  their  chance, 
says  he;  and  I'm  wi'  him.  As  'tis,  ye  see  me 
here — a  bad  man  wi'  still  a  streak  o*  good  in 
him.  Gin  I'd  had  ma  chance,  aiblins  'twad 
be — a  good  man  wi'  just  a  spice  o'  the  devil  in 
him.  A'  the  differ'  betune  what  is  and  what 
might  ha'  bin." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

He  sat  down.  In  the  great  hall  there  was 
silence,  save  for  a  tiny  sound  from  the  gallery 
like  a  sob  suppressed. 

The  squire  rose  hurriedly  and  left  the  room. 

After  him,  one  by  one,  trailed  the  tenants. 

At  length,  two  only  remained — M'Adam, 
sitting  solitary  with  a  long  array  of  empty 
chairs  on  either  hand ;  and,  at  the  far  end  of 
the  table,  Parson  Leggy,  stern,  upright,  mo- 
tionless. 

When  the  last  man  had  left  the  room  the 
parson  rose,  and  with  lips  tight-set  strode 
across  the  silent  hall. 

"M'Adam,"  he  said  rapidly  and  almost 
roughly,  "  I've  listened  to  what  you've  said,  as 
I  think  we  all  have,  with  a  sore  heart.  You 
hit  hard — but  I  think  you  were  right.  And  if 
I've  not  done  my  duty  by  you  as  I  ought — and 
I  fear  I've  not — it's  now  my  duty  as  God's 
minister  to  be  the  first  to  say  I'm  sorry."  And 
it  was  evident  from  his  face  what  an  effort  the 
words  cost  him. 

The  little  man  tilted  back  his  chair,  and 
raised  his  head. 

It  was  the   old    M'Adam    who  looked   up. 


322  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  thin  lips  were  curled ;  a  grin  was  crawling 
across  the  mocking  face ;  and  he  wagged  his 
head  gently,  as  he  looked  at  the  speaker 
through  the  slits  of  his  half-closed  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Hornbut,  I  believe  ye  thocht  me  in 
earnest,  'deed  and  I  do!"  He  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  laughed  softly.  "  Ye  swallered 
it  all  down  like  best  butter.  Dear,  dear!  to 
think  o'  that!"  Then,  stretching  forward: 
"Mr.  Hornbut,  I  was  playin'  wi'  ye." 

The  parson's  face,  as  he  listened,  was  ugly 
to  watch.  He  shot  out  a  hand  and  grabbed 
the  scoffer  by  his  coat ;  then  dropped  it  again 
and  turned  abruptly  away. 

As  he  passed  through  the  door  a  little 
sneering  voice  called  after  him : 

"  Mr.  Hornbut,  I  ask  ye  hoo  you,  a  minister 
o'  the  Church  of  England,  can  reconcile  it  to 
yer  conscience  to  think — though  it  be  but  for  a 
minute — that  there  can  be  ony  good  in  a  man 
and  him  no  churchgoer?  Sir,  ye're  a  heretic 
— not  to  say  a  heathen!"  He  sniggered  to 
himself,  and  his  hand  crept  to  a  half-emptied 
wine  decanter. 

An  hour  later,  James  Moore,  his  business 
with  the  squire  completed,  passed  through  the 
hall  on  his  way  out.  Its  only  occupant  was 
now  M'Adam,  and  the  Master  walked  straight 
up  to  his  enemy. 

"M'Adam,"  he  said  gruffly,  holding  out  a 
sinewy  hand,  "I'd  like  to  say " 


The  Devil's  Bowl  323 

The  little  man  knocked  aside  the  token  of 
friendship. 

"Na,  na.  No  cant,  if  ye  please,  James 
Moore.  That'll  aiblins  go  doon  wi'  the  par- 
sons, but  not  wi'  me.  I  ken  you  and  you  ken 
me,  and  all  the  whitewash  i'  th'  warld'll  no  de- 
ceive us." 

The  Master  turned  away,  and  his  face  was 
hard  as  the  nether  millstone.  But  the  little 
man  pursued  him. 

"I  was  nigh  forgettin',"  he  said.  "I've  a 
surprise  for  ye,  James  Moore.  But  I  hear  it's 
yer  birthday  on  Sunday,  and  I'll  keep  it  till 
then— he!  he!" 

"  Ye'll  see  me  before  Sunday,  M'  Adam,"  the 
other  answered.  "  On  Saturday,  as  I  told  yo', 
I'm  comin'  to  see  if  yo've  done  yer  duty." 

"  Whether  ye  come,  James  Moore,  is  your 
business.  Whether  ye'll  iver  go,  once  there, 
I'll  mak'  mine.  I've  warned  ye  twice  noo" — 
and  the  little  man  laughed  that  harsh,  cack- 
ling laugh  of  his. 

At  the  door  of  the  hall  the  Master  met  David. 

"  Noo,  lad,  yo're  comin'  along  wi'  Andrew 
and  me,"  he  said;  "Maggie'll  niver  forgie  us 
if  we  dinna  bring  yo'  home  wi'  us." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Mr.   Moore,"  the  boy 
replied.     "I've  to  see  squire  first;  and  then 
yo'  may  be  sure  I'll  be  after  you." 
•     The  Master  faltered  a  moment. 

"David,  ha'n'  yo*  spoke  to  yer  father  yet?" 
he  asked  in  low  voice.     "Yo'  should,  lad." 


324  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

The  boy  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"I  canna,"  he  said  petulantly. 

"I  would,  lad,"  the  other  advised.  "An* 
yo'  don't  yo'  may  be  sorry  after." 

As  he  turned  away  he  heard  the  boy's 
steps,  dull  and  sodden,  as  he  crossed  the  hall; 
and  then  a  thin,  would-be  cordial  voice  in  the 
emptiness : 

"I  declar'  if  'tisna  David!  The  return  o* 
the  Prodeegal — he!  he!  So  ye've  seen  yer 
auld  dad  at  last,  and  the  last;  the  proper 
place,  say  ye,  for  yer  father — he!  he!  Eh, 
lad,  but  I'm  blithe  to  see  ye.  D'ye  mind 
when  we  was  last  thegither?  Ye  was  kneelin* 
on  ma  chest:  'Your  time's  come,  dad,'  says 
you,  and  wangs  me  o'er  the  face — he !  he !  I 
mind  it  as  if  'twas  yesterday.  Weel,  weel, 
we'll  say  nae  mair  about  it.  Boys  will  be 
boys.  Sons  will  be  sons.  Accidents  will  hap- 
pen. And  if  at  first  ye  don't  succeed,  why, 
try,  try  again — he!  he!" 

Dusk  was  merging  into  darkness  when  the 
Master  and  Andrew  reached  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter.  It  had  been  long  dark  when  they 
emerged  from  the  cosy  parlor  of  the  inn  and 
plunged  out  into  the  night. 

As  they  crossed  the  Silver  Lea  and  trudged 
over  that  familiar  ground,  where  a  fortnight 
since  had  been  fought  out  the  battle  of  the  Cup, 
the  wind  fluttered  past  them  in  spasmodic 
gasps. 


The  Devil's  Bowl  325 

"There's  trouble  in  the  wind,"  said  the 
Master. 

"  Ay,"  answered  his  laconic  son. 

All  day  there  had  been  no  breath  of  air,  and 
the  sky  dangerously  blue.  But  now  a  world  of 
black  was  surging  up  from  the  horizon,  smoth- 
ering the  star-lit  night ;  and  small  dark  clouds, 
like  puffs  of  smoke,  detaching  themselves  from 
the  main  body,  were  driving  tempestuously 
forward — the  vanguard  of  the  storm. 

In  the  distance  was  a  low  tumbling  like 
heavy  tumbrils  on  the  floor  of  heaven.  All 
about,  the  wind  sounded  hollow  like  a  mighty 
scythe  on  corn.  The  air  was  oppressed  with  a 
leaden  blackness — no  glimmer  of  light  on  any 
hand ;  and  as  they  began  the  ascent  of  the  Pass 
they  reached  out  blind  hands  to  feel  along  the 
rock-face. 

A  sea-fret,  cool  and  wetting,  fell.  A  few 
big  rain-drops  splashed  heavily  down.  The 
wind  rose  with  a  leap  and  roared  past  them  up 
the  rocky  track.  And  the  water-gates  of  heav- 
en were  flung  wide. 

Wet  and  weary,  they-  battled  on ;  thinking 
sometimes  of  the  cosy  parlor  behind;  some- 
times of  the  home  in  front ;  wondering  whether 
Maggie,  in  flat  contradiction  of  her  father's 
orders,  would  be  up  to  welcome  them;  or 
whether  only  Owd  Bob  would  come  out  to  meet 
them. 

The  wind  volleyed  past  them  like  salvoes  of 
artillery.      The   rain   stormed   at  them  from 


326  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

above ;  spat  at  them  from  the  rock-face ;  and 
leapt  up  at  them  from  their  feet. 

Once  they  halted  for  a  moment,  finding  a 
miserable  shelter  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 

"It's  a  Black  Killer's  night,"  panted  the 
Master.     "  I  reck'n  he's  oot." 

"Ay,"  the  boy  gasped,  "reck'n  he  is." 

Up  and  up  they  climbed  through  the  black- 
ness, blind  and  buffeted.  The  eternal  thunder 
of  the  rain  was  all  about  them ;  the  clamor  of 
the  gale  above ;  and  far  beneath,  the  roar  of 
angry  waters. 

Once,  in  a  lull  in  the  storm,  the  Master 
turned  and  looked  back  into  the  blackness 
along  the  path  they  had  come. 

"  Did  ye  hear  onythin'  ?"  he  roared  above 
the  muffled  soughing  of  the  wind. 

"  Nay !  "  Andrew  shouted  back. 

"I  thowt  I  heard  a  step!  "  the  Master  cried, 
peering  down.     But  nothing  could  he  see. 

Then  the  wind  leaped  to  life  again  like  a 
giant  from  his  sleep,  drowning  all  sound  with 
its  hurricane  voice ;  and  they  turned  and  bent 
to  their  task  again. 

Nearing  the  summit,  the  Master  turned  once 
more. 

"There  it  was  again!"  he  called;  but  his 
words  were  swept  away  on  the  storm ;  and  they 
buckled  to  the  struggle  afresh. 

Ever  and  anon  the  moon  gleamed  down 
through  the  riot  of  tossing  sky.  Then  they 
could  see  the  wet  wall  above  them,  with  the 


The  Devil's  Bowl  327 

water  tumbling  down  its  sheer  face ;  and  far 
below,  in  the  roaring  gutter  of  the  Pass,  a 
brown-stained  torrent.  Hardly,  however,  had 
they  time  to  glance  around  when  a  mass  of 
cloud  would  hurry  jealously  up,  .and  all  again 
was  blackness  and  noise. 

At  length,  nigh  spent,  they  topped  the  last 
and  steepest  pitch  of  the  Pass,  and  emerged 
into  the  Devil's  Bowl.  There,  overcome  with 
their  exertions,  they  flung  themselves  on  to  the 
soaking  ground  to  draw  breath. 

Behind  them,  the  wind  rushed  with  a  sullen 
roar  up  the  funnel  of  the  Pass.  It  screamed 
above  them  as  though  ten  million  devils  were 
a-horse;  and  blurted  out  on  to  the  wild 
Marches  beyond. 

As  they  lay  there,  still  panting,  the  moon 
gleamed  down  in  momentary  graciousness. 
In  front,  through  the  lashing  rain,  they  could 
discern  the  hillocks  that  squat,  hag-like,  round 
the  Devil's  Bowl;  and  lying  in  its  bosom,  its 
white  waters,  usually  so  still,  ploughed  now 
into  a  thousand  furrows,  the  Lone  Tarn. 

The  Master  raised  his  head  and  craned  for- 
ward at  the  ghostly  scene.  Of  a  sudden  he 
reared  himself  on  to  his  arms,  and  stayed  mo- 
tionless a  while.  Then  he  dropped  as  though 
dead,  forcing  down  Andrew  with  an  iron  hand. 

"Lad,  did'st  see?"  he  whispered. 

"Nay;  what  was't?"  the  boy  replied,  roused 
by  his  father's  tone. 

"There!" 


328  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

But  as  the  Master  pointed  forward,  a  blur  of 
cloud  intervened  and  all  was  dark.  Quickly  it 
passed;  and  again  the  lantern  of  the  night 
shone  down.  And  Andrew,  looking  with  all 
his  eyes,  saw  indeed. 

There,  in  front,  by  the  fretting  waters  of 
the  Tarn,  packed  in  a  solid  phalanx,  with  every 
head  turned  in  the  same  direction,  was  a  flock 
of  sheep.  They  were  motionless,  all-intent, 
staring  with  horror-bulging  eyes.  A  column 
of  steam  rose  from  their  bodies  into  the  rain- 
pierced  air.  Panting  and  palpitating,  yet  they 
stood  with  their  backs  to  the  water,  as  thoxtgh 
determined  to  sell  their  lives  dearly.  Beyond 
them,  not  fifty  yards  away,  crouched  a  hump- 
backed boulder,  casting  a  long,  misshapen 
shadow  in  the  moonlight.  And  beneath  it 
were  two  black  objects,  one  still  struggling 
feebly. 

41  The  Killer!"  gasped  the  boy,  and,  all 
ablaze  with  excitement,  began  forging  forward. 

"Steady,  lad,  steady!"  urged  his  father, 
dropping  a  restraining  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder. 

Above  them  a  huddle  of  clouds  flung  in  furi- 
ous rout  across  the  night,  and  the  moon  was 
veiled. 

"  Follow,  lad !  "  ordered  the  Master,  and  be- 
gan to  crawl  silently  forward.  As  stealthily 
Andrew  pursued.  And  over  the  sodden 
ground  they  crept,  one  behind  the  other,  like 
two  night-hawks  on  some  foul  errand,. 


The  Devil's  Bowl  329 

On  they  crawled,  lying  prone  during  the 
blinks  of  moon,  stealing  forward  in  the  dark; 
till,  at  length,  the  swish  of  the  rain  on  the 
waters  of  the  Tarn,  and  the  sobbing  of  the 
flock  in  front,  warned  them  they  were  near. 

They  skirted  the  trembling  pack,  passing  so 
close  as  to  brush  against  the  flanking  sheep ; 
and  yet  unnoticed,  for  the  sheep  were  soul-si* 
absorbed  in  the  tragedy  in  front.  Only,  when 
the  moon  was  in,  Andrew  could  hear  them 
huddling  and  stamping  in  the  darkness.  And 
again,  as  it  shone  out,  fearfully  they  edged 
closer  to  watch  the  bloody  play. 

Along  the  Tarn  edge  the  two  crept.  And 
still  the  gracious  moon  hid  their  approach,  and 
the  drunken  wind  drowned  with  its  revelry  the 
sound  of  their  coming. 

So  they  stole  on,  on  hands  and  knees,  with 
hearts  aghast  and  fluttering  breath;  until,  of 
a  sudden,  in  a  lull  of  wind,  they  could  hear, 
right  before  them,  the  smack  and  slobber  of 
bloody  lips,  chewing  their  bloody  meal. 

"Say  thy  prayers,  Red  Wull.  Thy  last 
minute's  come!"  muttered  the  Master,  rising 
to  his  knees.  Then,  in  Andrew's  ear :  "  When 
I  rush,  lad,  follow!"  For  he  thought,  when 
the  moon  rose,  to  jump  in  on  the  great  dog, 
and,  surprising  him  as  he  lay  gorged  and  un- 
suspicious, to  deal  him  one  terrible  swashing 
blow,  and  end  forever  the  lawless  doings  of  the 
Tailless  Tyke. 

The  moon  flung  off  its  veil  of  cloud.     White 


330  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

and  cold,  it  stared  down  into  the  Devil's  Bowl; 
on  murderer  and  murdered. 

Within  a  hand's  cast  of  the  avengers  of 
blood  humped  the  black  boulder.  On  the  bor- 
der of  its  shadow  lay  a  dead  sheep ;  and  stand- 
ing beside  the  body,  his  coat  all  ruffled  by  the 
hand  of  the  storm — Owd  Bob — Owd  Bob  o* 
Kenmuir. 

Then  the  light  went  in,  and  darkness  cov- 
ered the  land. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   DEVIL'S   BOWL 

It  was  Owd  Bob.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
taking. In  the  wide  world  there  was  but  one 
Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir.  The  silver  moon 
gleamed  down  on  the  dark  head  and  rough 
gray  coat,  and  lit  the  white  escutcheon  on  his 
chest. 

And  in  the  darkness  James  Moore  was  lying 
with  his  face  pressed  downward  that  he  might 
not  see. 

Once  he  raised  himself  on  his  arms ;  his  eyes 
were  shut  and  face  uplifted,  like  a  blind  man 
praying.  He  passed  a  weary  hand  across  his 
brow ;  his  head  dropped  again ;  and  he  moaned 
and  moaned  like  a  man  in  everlasting  pain. 

Then  the  darkness  lifted  a  moment,  and  he 
stole  a  furtive  glance,  like  a  murderer's  at  the 
gallows-tree,  at  the  scene  in  front. 

It  was  no  dream ;  clear  and  cruel  in  the 
moonlight  the  humpbacked  boulder ;  the  dead 
sheep ;  and  that  gray  figure,  beautiful,  motion- 
less, damned  for  all  eternity. 

The  Master  turned  his  f:\ce  and  looked  at 
Andrew,  a  dumb,  pitiful  entreaty  in  his  eyes; 
but  in  the  boy's  white ,  horror-stricken  counte- 
nance was  no  comfort.     Then  his  head  lolled 


332  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

down  again,  and  the  strong  man  was  whim- 
pering. 

"  He!  he!  he!  'Scuse  ma  laffin',  Mr.  Moore 
—he!  he.!  he!" 

A  little  man,  all  wet  and  shrunk,  sat  hunch- 
ing on  a  mound  above  them,  rocking  his  shriv- 
elled form  to  and  fro  in  the  agony  of  his  mer- 
riment. 

"Ye  raskil — he!  he!  Ye  rogue — he!  he!" 
and  he  shook  his  fist  waggishly  at  the  uncon- 
scious gray  dog.  "  I  owe  ye  anither  grudge  for 
this — ye've  anteecipated  me" — and  he  leant 
back  and  shook  this  way  and  that  in  con- 
vulsive mirth. 

The  man  below  him  rose  heavily  to  his  feet, 
and  tumbled  toward  the  mocker,  his  great 
figure  swaying  from  side  to  side  as  though  in 
blind  delirium,  moaning  still  as  he  went.  And 
there  was  that  on  his  face  which  no  man  can 
mistake.     Boy  that  he  was,  Andrew  knew  it. 

"  Feyther !  feyther !  •  do'ee  not !"  he  pleaded, 
running  after  his  father  and  laying  impotent 
hands  on  him. 

But  the  strong  man  shook  him  off  like  a  fly, 
and  rolled  on,  swaying  and  groaning,  with 
that  awful  expression  plain  to  see  in  the  moon- 
light. 

In  front  the  little  man  squatted  in  the  rain, 
bowed  double  still ;  and  took  no  thought  to  flee. 

"Come  on,  James  Moore!  Come  on!"  he 
laughed,  malignant  joy  in  his  voice;  and 
something  gleamed  bright  in  his  right  hand, 


The  Devil's  Bowl  333 

and  was  hid  again.  "  I've  bin  waitin'  this  a 
weary  while  noo.     Come  on !  " 

The  had  there  been  done  something  worse 
than  sheep-murder  in  the  dreadful  lonesome- 
ness  of  the  Devil's  Bowl  upon  that  night;  but, 
of  a  sudden,  there  sounded  the  splash  of  a 
man's  foot,  falling  heavily  behind ;  a  hand  like 
a  falling  tree  smote  the  Master  on  the  shoulder ; 
and  a  voice  roared  above  the  noise  of  the  storm : 

"Mr.  Moore!     Look,  man!  look!" 

The  Master  tried  to  shake  off  that  detaining 
grasp ;  but  it  pinned  him  where  he  was,  im- 
movable. 

"  Look,  I  tell  yo' !"  cried  that  great  voice 
again 

A  lu,nd  pushed  past  him  and  pointed ;  and 
sullenly  he  turned,  ignoring  the  figure  at  his 
side,  and  looked. 

The  wind  had  dropped  suddenly  as  it  had 
risen ;  the  little  man  on  the  mound  had  ceased 
to  chuckle;  Andrew's  sobs  were  hushed;  and 
in  the  background  the  huddled  flock  edged 
closei.  The  world  hung  balanced  on  the  pin- 
point of  the  moment.  Every  eye  was  in  the 
one  direction. 

With  dull,  uncomprehending  gaze  James 
Moore  stared  as  bidden.  There  was  the  gray 
dog  naked  in  the  moonlight,  heedless  still  of 
any  witnesses;  there  the  murdered  sheep, 
lying  within  and  without  that  distorted  shade ; 
and  there  the  humpbacked  boulder. 

He  stared  into  the  shadow,  and  still  stared. 


334  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 


Then  he  started  as  though  struck.  The  shad- 
ow of  the  boulder  had  moved ! 

Motionless,  with  head  shot  forward  and 
bulging  eyes,  he  gazed. 

Ay,  ay,  ay ;  he  was  sure  of  it — a  huge  dim 
outline  as  of  a  lion  couchant,  in  the  very  thick- 
est of  the  blackness. 

At  that  he  was  seized  with  such  a  palsy  of 
trembling  that  he  must  have  fallen  but  for 
the  strong  arm  about  his  waist. 

Clearer  every  moment  grew  that  crouching 
figure ;  till  at  length  they  plainly  could  discern 
the  line  of  arching  loins,  the  crest,  thick  as  a 
stallion's,  the  massive,  wagging  head.  No 
mistake  this  time.  There  he  lay  in  the  deep- 
est black,  gigantic,  revelling  in  his  horrid  de- 
bauch—the Black  Killer! 

And  they  watched  him  at  his  feast.  Now 
he  burrowed  into  the  spongy  flesh ;  now  turned 
to  lap  the  dark  pool  which  glittered  in  the 
moonlight  at  his  side  like  claret  in  a  silver  cup. 
Now  lifting  his  head,  he  snapped  irritably 
at  the  rain-drops,  and  the  moon  caught  his 
wicked,  rolling  eye  and  the  red  shreds  of  flesh 
dripping  from  his  jaw.  And  again,  raising 
his  great  muzzle  as  if  about  to  howl,  he  let  the 
delicious  nectar  trickle  down  his  throat  and 
ravish  his  palate. 

So  he  went  on,  all  unsuspicious,  wisely  nod- 
ding in  slow-mouthed  gluttony.  And  in  the 
stillness,  between  the  claps  of  wind,  they  could 
hear  the  smacking  of  his  lips. 


The  Devil's  Bowl  335 

While  all  the  time  the  gray  dog  stood  be- 
fore him,  motionless,  as  though  carved  in 
stone. 

At  last,  as  the  murderer  rolled  his  great 
head  from  side  to  side,  he  saw  that  still  figure. 
At  the  sight  he  leaped  back,  dismayed.  Then 
with  a  deep-mouthed  roar  that  shook  the 
waters  of  the  Tarn  he  was  up  and  across  his 
victim  with  fangs  bared,  his  coat  standing 
erect  in  wet,  rigid  furrows  from  topknot  to  tail. 

So  the  two  stood,  face  to  face,  with  perhaps 
a  yard  of  rain-pierced  air  between  them. 

The  wind  hushed  its  sighing  to  listen.  The 
moon  stared  down,  white  and  dumb.  Away 
at  the  back  the  sheep  edged  closer.  While 
save  for  the  everlasting  thunder  of  the  rain, 
there  was  utter  stillness. 

An  age,  it  seemed,  they  waited  so.  Then  a 
voice,  clear  yet  low  and  far  away,  like  a  bugle 
in  a  distant  city,  broke  the  silence. 

"Eh,  Wullie!"  it  said. 

There  was  no  anger  in  the  tones,  only  an 
incomparable  reproach;  the  sound  of  the 
cracking  of  a  man's  heart. 

At  the  call  the  great  dog  leapt  round,  snarl- 
ing in  hideous  passion.  He  saw  the  small, 
familiar  figure,  clear-cut  against  the  tumbling 
sky;  and  for  the  only  time  in  his  life  Red 
Wull  was  afraid. 

His  blood-foe  was  forgotten ;  the  dead  sheep 
was  forgotten;  everything  was  sunk  in  the 
agony  of  that  moment.     He  cowered  upon  the 


336  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

ground,  and  a  cry  like  that  of  a  lost  soul  was 
wrung  from  him ;  it  rose  on  the  still  night  air 
and  floated,  wailing,  away;  and  the  white 
waters  of  the  Tarn  thrilled  in  cold  pity ;  out  of 
the  lonely  hollow ;  over  the  desolate  Marches ; 
into  the  night. 

On  the  mound  above  stood  his  master.  The 
little  man's  white  hair  was  bared  to  the  night 
wind ;  the  rain  trickled  down  his  face ;  and  his 
hands  were  folded  behind  his  back.  He  stood 
there,  looking  down  into  the  dell  below  him, 
as  a  man  may  stand  at  the  tomb  of  his  lately 
buried  wife.  And  there  was  such  an  expres- 
sion on  his  face  as  I  cannot  describe. 

"  Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me !"  he  cried  at  length ; 
and  his  voice  sounded  weak  and  far,  like  a  dis- 
tant memory. 

At  that,  the  huge  brute  came  crawling 
toward  him  on  his  belly,  whimpering  as  he 
came,  very  pitiful  in  his  distress.  He  knew 
his  fate  as  every  sheep-dog  knows  it.  That 
troubled  him  not.  His  pain,  insufferable,  was 
that  this,  his  friend  and  father,  who  had  trusted 
him,  should  have  found  him  in  his  sin. 

So  he  crept  up  to  his  master's  feet;  and 
the  little  man  never  moved. 

"  Wullie — ma  Wullie !"  he  said  very  gently. 
"They've  aye  bin  agin  me — and  noo  you!  A 
man's  mither — a  man's  wife — a  man's  dog! 
they're  all  I've  iver  had;  and  noo  ain  o'  they 
three  has  turned  agin  me !  Indeed  I  am  alone !' 

At  that  the  great  dog  raised  himself,  and 


The  Devil's  Bowl  337 

placing  his  forepaws  on  his  master's  chest  ten- 
derly, lest  he  should  hurt  him  who  was  already 
hurt  past  healing,  stood  towering  above  him ; 
while  the  little  man  laid  his  two  cold  hands  on 
the  dog's  shoulders. 

So  they  stood,  looking  at  one  another,  like  a 
man  and  his  love. 

•  ••■••• 

At  M' Adam's  word,  Owd  Bob  looked  up, 
and  for  the  first  time  saw  his  master. 

He  seemed  in  nowise  startled,  but  trotted 
over  to  him.  There  was  nothing  fearful  in  his 
carriage,  no  haunting  blood-guiltiness  in  the 
true  gray  eyes  which  never  told  a  lie,  which 
never,  dog-like,  failed  to  look  you  in  the  face. 
Yet  his  tail  was  low,  and,  as  he  stopped  at  his 
master's  feet,  he  was  quivering.  For  he,  too, 
knew,  and  was  not  unmoved. 

For  weeks  he  had  tracked  the  Killer;  for 
weeks  he  had  followed  him  as  he  crossed  Ken- 
muir,  bound  on  his  bloody  errands ;  yet  always 
had  lost  him  on  the  Marches.  Now,  at  last, 
he  had  run  him  to  ground.  Yet  his  heart  went 
out  to  his  enemy  in  his  distress. 

"I  thowt  t'had  bin  yo',  lad,"  the  Master 
whispered,  his  hand  on  the  dark  head  at  his 
knee—"  I  thowt  t'had  bin  yo' !  " 

•  •••■•• 

Rooted  to  the  ground,  the  three  watched  the 
scene  between  M'  Adam  and  his  Wull. 

In  the  end  the  Master  was  whimpering ;  An- 
drew crying ;  and  David  turned  his  back 


338  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

At  length,  silent,  they  moved  away. 

"Had  I — should  I  go  to  him?"  asked  David 
hoarsely,  nodding  toward  his  father. 

"  Nay,  nay,  lad,"  the  Master  replied.  "  Yon's 
not  a  matter  for  a  mon's  friends." 

So  they  marched  out  of  the  Devil's  Bowl, 
and  left  those  two  alone  together. 

A  little  later,  as  they  trampled  along,  James 
Moore  heard  little  pattering,  staggering  foot- 
steps behind. 

He  stopped,  and  the  other  two  went  on. 

"Man,"  a  voice  whispered,  and  a  face,  white 
and  pitiful,  like  a  mother's  pleading  for  her 
child,  looked  into  his — "Man,  ye'll  no  tell 
them  a'?  I'd  no  like  'em  to  ken  'twas  ma 
Wullie.     Think  an  t'had  bin  yer  ain  dog." 

"  You  may  trust  me ! "  the  other  answered 
thickly. 

The  little  man  stretched  out  a  palsied  hand. 

"Gie  us  yer  hand  on't.  And  G-God  bless 
ye,  James  Moore !  " 

So  these  two  shook  hands  in  the  moonlight, 
with  none  to  witness  it  but  the  God  who  made 
them. 

And  that  is  why  the  mystery  of  the  Black 
Killer  is  yet  unsolved  in  the  Daleland.  Many 
have  surmised;  besides  those  three  only  one 
other  knows — knows  now  which  of  those  two 
he  saw  upon  a  summer  night  was  the  guilty, 
which  the  innocent.  And  Postie  Jim  tells  no 
man. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

On  the  following  morning  there  was  a  sheep- 
auction  at  the  Dalesman's  Daughter. 

Early  as  many  of  the  farmers  arrived,  there 
was  one  earlier.  Tupper,  the  first  man  to 
enter  the  sand-floored  parlor,  found  M'Adam 
before  him. 

He  was  sitting  a  little  forward  in  his  chair; 
his  thin  hands  rested  on  his  knees ;  and  on  his 
face  was  a  gentle,  dreamy  expression  such  as 
no  man  had  ever  seen  there  before.  All  the 
harsh  wrinkles  seemed  to  have  fled  in  the 
night ;  and  the  sour  face,  stamped  deep  with 
the  bitterness  of  life,  was  softened  now,  as  if 
at  length  at  peace. 

"When  I  coom  doon  this  mornin',"  said 
Teddy  Bolstock  in  a  whisper,  "I  found  fim 
sittin'  just  so.  And  he's  nor  moved  nor  spoke 
since." 

"Where's  th'  Terror,  then?"  asked  Tup- 
per,  awed  somehow  into  like  hushed  tones. 

"lilt*  paddock  at  back,"  Teddy  answered, 
"marchin'  hoop  and  doon,  hoop  and  doon,  for 
a'  the  world  like  a  sentry-soger.  And  so  he 
was  when  I  looked  oot  o'  window  when  I 
wake." 


34o  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

Then  Londesley  entered,  and  after  him,  Ned 
Hoppin,  Rob  Saunderson,  Jim  Mason,  and  oth- 
ers, each  with  his  dog.  And  each  man,  as  he 
came  in  and  saw  the  little  lone  figure  for  once 
without  its  huge  attendant  genius,  put  the 
same  question;  while  the  dogs  sniffed  about 
the  little  man,  as  though  suspecting  treachery. 
And  all  the  time  M'Adam  sat  as  though  he 
neither  heard  nor  saw,  lost  in  some  sweet,  sad 
dream ;  so  quiet,  so  silent,  that  more  than  one 
thought  he  slept. 

After  the  first  glance,  however,  the  farmers 
paid  him  little  heed,  clustering  round  the  pub- 
lican at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  to  hear 
the  latest  story  of  Owd  Bob. 

It  appeared  that  a  week  previously,  James 
Moore  with  a  pack  of  sheep  had  met  the  new 
Grammoch-town  butcher  at  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter.  A  bargain  concluded,  the  butcher 
started  with  the  flock  for  home.  As  he  had 
no  dog,  the  Master  offered  him  Th'  Owd  Un. 
"  And  he'll  pick  me  up  i'  th'  town  to-morrow," 
said  he. 

Now  the  butcher  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 
Of  course  he  had  heard  of  Owd  Bob  o'  Ken- 
muir,  yet  it  never  struck  him  that  this  hand- 
some gentleman  with  the  quiet,  resolute  man- 
ner, who  handled  sheep  as  he  had  never  seen 
them  handled,  was  that  hero — "  the  best  sheep- 
dog in  the  North." 

Certain  it  is  that  by  the  time  the  flock  was 
penned  in  the  enclosure  behind  the  shop,  he 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay        341 

coveted  the  dog — ay,  would  even  offer  ten 
pounds  for  him ! 

Forthwith  the  butcher  locked  him  up  in  an 
outhouse — summit  of  indignity;  resolving  to 
make  his  offer  on  the  morrow. 

When  the  morrow  came  he  found  no  dog  in 
the  outhouse,  and,  worse,  no  sheep  in  the  en- 
closure. A  sprung  board  showed  the  way  of 
escape  of  the  one,  and  a  displaced  hurdle  that 
of  the  other.  And  as  he  was  making  the  dis- 
covery, a  gray  dog  and  a  flock  of  sheep,  trav- 
elling along  the  road  toward  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter,  met  the  Master. 

From  the  first,  Owd  Bob  had  mistrusted  the 
m<*n.  The  attempt  to  confine  him  set  the  seal 
on  his  suspicions.  His  master's  sheep  were 
not  for  such  a  rogue ;  and  he  worked  his  own 
way  out  and  took  the  sheep  along  with  him. 

The  story  was  told  to  a  running  chorus  of — 
"  Ma  word !  Good,  Owd  Un !— Ho !  ho !  did  he 
thot?" 

Of  them  all,  only  M'  Adam  sat  strangely  silent. 

Rob  Saunderson,  always  glad  to  draw  the 
little  man,  remarked  it. 

"  And  what  d'yo'  think  o'  that,  Mr.  M'  Adam, 
for  a  wunnerfu'  story  of  a  wunnerfu'  tyke?" 
he  asked. 

"  It's  a  gude  tale,  a  vera  gude  tale,"  the  little 
man  answered  dreamily.  "  And  James  Moore 
didna  invent  it ;  he  had  it  from  the  Christmas 
number  o'  the  Flock-keeper  in  saxty."  (On  the 
following  Sunday,  old  Rob,  from  sheer  curios- 


342  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

ity,  reached  down  from  his  shelf  the  specified 
number  of  the  paper.  To  his  amazement  he 
found  the  little  man  was  right.  There  was 
the  story  almost  identically.  None  the  less  is 
it  also  true  of  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir.) 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  little  man  continued,  "and  in 
a  day  or  twa  James  Moore'll  ha*  anither  tale 
to  tell  ye — a  better  tale,  ye'll  think  it — mair 
laffable.  And  yet — ay — no — I'll  no  believe  it ! 
Iniver  loved  James  Moore,  but  I  think,  as  Mr. 
Hornbut  aince  said,  he'd  rather  die  than  lie. 
Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir!"  he  continued  in  a 
whisper.  "  Up  till  the  end  I  canna  shake  him 
aff.  Haffiins  I  think  that  where  I'm  gaein' 
to  there'll  be  gray  dogs  sneakin'  around  me 
in  the  twilight.  And  they're  aye  behind  and 
behind,  and  I  canna,  canna " 

Teddy  Bolstock  interrupted,  lifting  his  hand 
for  silence. 

"  D'yo'  hear  thot?— Thunder !" 

They  listened;  and  from  without  came  a 
gurgling,  jarring  roar,  horrible  to  hear. 

"It's  comin'  nearer'  " 

"  Nay,  it's  goin'  away !  " 

"No  thunder  thot!" 

"  More  like  the  Lea  in  flood.  And  yet — Eh, 
Mr.  M'  Adam,  what  is  it?" 

The  little  man  had  moved  at  last.  He  was 
on  his  feet,  staring  about  him,  wild-eyed. 

"Where's  yer  dogs?"  he  almost  screamed. 

"  Here's  ma Nay,  by  thunder !  but  he's 

not!  "  was  the  astonished  cry. 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay        343 

In  the  interest  of  the  story  no  man  had 
noticed  that  his  dog  had  risen  from  his  side ; 
no  one  had  noticed  a  file  of  shaggy  figures 
creeping  out  of  the  room. 

"I  tell  ye  it's  the  tykes!  I  tell  ye  it's  the 
tykes!  They're  on  ma  Wullie — fifty  to  one 
they're  on  him!  My  God!  My  God!  And 
me  not  there!  Wullie,  Wullie!" — in  a  scream 
— "I'm  wi'ye!" 

At  the  same  moment  Bessie  Bolstock  rushed 
in,  white-faced. 

"  Hi !  Feyther !  Mr.  Saunderson !  all  o*  you ! 
T'tykes  fightin'  mad !     Hark !" 

There  was  no  time  for  that.  Each  man 
seized  his  stick  and  rushed  for  the  door ;  and 
M'Adam  led  them  all. 

•  •••••• 

A  rare  thing  it  was  for  M'Adam  and  Red 
Wull  to  be  apart.  So  rare,  that  others  besides 
the  men  in  that  little  tap-room  noticed  it. 

Saunderson 's  old  Shep  walked  quietly  to  the 
back  door  of  the  house  and  looked  out. 

There  on  the  slope  below  him  he  saw  what 
he  sought,  stalking  up  and  down,  gaunt  and 
grim,  like  a  lion  at  feeding- time.  And  as  the 
old  dog  watched,  his  tail  was  gently  swaying 
as  though  he  were  well  pleased. 

He  walked  back  into  the  tap-room  just  as 
Teddy  began  his  tale.  Twice  he  made  the 
round  of  the  room,  silent-footed.  From  dog 
to  dog  he  went,  stopping  at  each  as  though 
urging  him  on  to  some  great  enterprise.     Then 


344  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

he  made  for  the  door  again,  looking  back  to 
see  if  any  followed. 

One  by  one  the  others  rose  and  trailed  out 
after  him :  big  blue  Rasper,  Londesley's  Las- 
sie, Ned  Hoppin's  young  dog;  Grip  and  Grap- 
ple, the  publican's  bull -terriers ;  Jim  Mason's 
Gyp,  foolish  and  flirting  even  now;  others 
there  were ;  and  last  of  all,  waddling  heavily 
in  the  rear,  that  scarred  Amazon,  the  Venus. 

Out  of  the  house  they  pattered,  silent  and 
unseen,  with  murder  in  their  hearts.  At  last 
they  had  found  their  enemy  alone.  And  slow- 
ly, in  a  black  cloud,  like  the  shadow  of  death, 
they  dropped  down  the  slope  upon  him. 

And  he  saw  them  coming,  knew  their  er- 
rand— as  who  should  better  than  the  Terror  of 
the  Border? — and  was  glad.  Death  it  might 
be,  and  such  an  one  as  he  would  wish  to  die — 
at  least  distraction  from  that  long-drawn, 
haunting  pain.  And  he  smiled  grimly  as  he 
looked  at  the  approaching  crowd,  and  saw 
there  was  not  one  there  but  he  had  humbled 
in  his  time. 

He  ceased  his  restless  pacing,  and  awaited 
them.  His  great  head  was  high  as  he  scanned 
them  contemptuously,  daring  them  to  come  on. 

And  on  they  came,  marching  slow  and  silent 
like  soldiers  at  a  funeral :  young  and  old ;  bob- 
tailed  and  bull ;  terrier  and  collie ;  flocking  like 
vultures  to  the  dead.  And  the  Venus,  heavy 
with  years,  rolled  after  them  on  her  bandy 
legs,  panting  in  her  hurry  lest  she  should  be 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay        345 

late.  For  had  she  not  the  blood  of  her  blood 
to  avenge? 

So  they  came  about  him,  slow,  certain,  mur- 
derous, opening  out  to  cut  him  off  on  every 
side.  There  was  no  need.  He  never  thought 
to  move.  Long  odds  'twould  be — crushingly 
heavy ;  yet  he  loved  them  for  it,  and  was  trem- 
bling already  with  the  glory  of  the  coming 
fight. 

They  were  up  to  him  now ;  the  sheep-dogs 
walking  round  him  on  their  toes,  stiff  and 
short  like  cats  on  coals;  their  backs  a  little 
humped ;  heads  averted ;  yet  eying  him  askance. 

And  he  remained  stock-still,  nor  looked  at 
them.  His  great  chin  was  cocked,  and  his 
muzzle  wrinkled  in  a  dreadful  grin.  As  he 
stood  there,  shivering  a  little,  his  eyes  rolling 
back,  his  breath  grating  in  his  throat  to  set 
every  bristle  on  end,  he  looked  a  devil  indeed. 

The  Venus  ranged  alongside  him.  No  pre- 
liminary stage  for  her;  she  never  walked 
where  she  could  stand,  or  stood  where  she 
could  lie.  But  stand  she  must  now,  breathing 
hard  through  her  nose,  never  taking  her  eyes 
off  that  pad  she  had  marked  for  her  own. 
Close  beside  her  were  crop-eared  Grip  and 
Grapple,  looking  up  at  the  line  above  them 
where  hairy  neck  and  shoulder  joined.  Be- 
hind was  big  Rasper,  and  close  to  him  Lassie. 
Of  the  others,  each  had  marked  his  place,  each 
taken  up  his  post. 

Last  of  all,  old  Shep  took  his  stand  full  in 


346  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

front  of  his  enemy,  their  shoulders  almost  rub- 
bing, head  past  head. 

So  the  two  stood  a  moment,  as  though  they 
were  whispering;  each  diabolical,  each  rolling 
back  his  eyes  to  watch  the  other.  While  from 
the  little  mob  there  rose  a  snarling,  bubbling 
snore,  like  some  giant  wheezing  in  his  sleep. 

Then  like  lightning  each  struck.  Rearing 
high,  the)'*  wrestled  with  striving  paws  and  the 
expression  of  fiends  incarnate.  Down  they 
went,  Shep  underneath,  and  the  great  dog  with 
a  dozen  of  these  wolves  of  hell  upon  him. 
Rasper,  devilish,  was  riding  on  his  back;  the 
Venus — well  for  him  ! — had  struck  and  missed ; 
but  Grip  and  Grapple  had  their  hold ;  and  the 
others,  like  leaping  demoniacs,  were  plunging 
into  the  whirlpool  vortex  of  the  fight. 

And  there,  where  a  fortnight  before  he  had 
fought  and  lost  the  battle  of  the  Cup,  Red 
Wull  now  battled  for  his  life. 

Long  odds!  But  what  cared  he?  The  long- 
drawn  agony  of  the  night  was  drowned  in  that 
glorious  delirium.  The  hate  of  years  came 
bubbling  forth.  In  that  supreme  moment  he 
would  avenge  his  wrongs.  And  he  went  in  to 
fight,  revelling  like  a  giant  in  the  red  lust  of 
killing. 

Long  odds !  Never  before  had  he  faced  such 
a  galaxy  of  foes.  His  one  chance  lay  in  quick- 
ness: to  prevent  the  swarming  crew  getting 
their  hold  till  at  least  he  had  diminished  their 
numbers. 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at   Bay        347 

Then  it  was  a  sight  to  see  the  great  brute, 
huge  as  a  bull-calf,  strong  as  a  bull,  rolling 
over  and  over  and  up  again,  quick  as  a  kitten; 
leaping  here,  striking  there ;  shaking  himself 
free;  swinging  his  quarters;  fighting  with 
feet  and  body  and  teeth — every  inch  of  him  at 
war.  More  than  once  he  broke  right  through 
the  mob ;  only  to  turn  again  and  face  it.  No 
flight  for  him ;  nor  thought  of  it. 

Up  and  down  the  slope  the  dark  mass  tossed, 
like  some  hulk  the  sport  of  the  waves.  Black 
and  white,  sable  and  gray,  worrying  at  that 
great  centrepiece.  Up  and  down,  roaming 
wide,  leaving  everywhere  a  trail  of  red. 

Gyp  he  had  pinned  and  hurled  over  his 
shoulder.  Grip  followed;  he  shook  her  till 
she  rattled,  then  flung  her  afar ;  and  she  fell 
with  a  horrid  thud,  not  to  rise.  While  Grap- 
ple, the  death  to  avenge,  hung  tighter.  In  a 
scarlet,  soaking  patch  of  the  ground  lay  Big 
Bell's  lurcher,  doubled  up  in  a  dreadful  ball. 
And  Hoppin's  young  dog,  who  three  hours 
before  had  been  the  children's  tender  play- 
mate, now  fiendish  to  look  on,  dragged  after 
the  huddle  up  the  hill.  Back  the  mob  rolled 
on  her.  When  it  was  passed,  she  lay  quite 
still,  grinning;  a  handful  of  tawny  hair  and 
flesh  in  her  dead  mouth. 

So  they  fought  on.  And  ever  and  anon  a 
great  figure  rose  up  from  the  heaving  inferno 
all  around ;  rearing  to  his  full  height,  his  head 
ragged  and  bleeding,  the  red  foam  dripping 


348  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

from  his  jaws.  Thus  he  would  appear  mo- 
mentarily, like  some  dark  rock  amid  a  rag- 
ing sea;  and  down  he  would  go  again. 

Silent  now  they  fought,  dumb  and  deter- 
mined. Only  you  might  have  heard  the  rend 
and  rip  of  tearing  flesh;  a  hoarse  gurgle  as 
some  dog  went  down;  the  panting  of  dry 
throats;  and  now  and  then  a  sob  from  that 
central  figure.  For  he  was  fighting  for  his 
life.  The  Terror  of  the  Border  was  at 
bay. 

All  who  meant  it  were  on  him  now.  The 
Venus,  blinded  with  blood,  had  her  hold  at 
last ;  and  never  but  once  in  a  long  life  of  bat- 
tles had  she  let  go ;  Rasper,  his  breath  coming 
in  rattles,  had  him  horribly  by  the  loins ;  while 
a  dozen  other  devils  with  red  eyes  and  wrin- 
kled nostrils  clung  still. 

Long  odds !  And  down  he  went,  smothered 
beneath  the  weight  of  numbers,  yet  struggled 
up  again.  His  great  head  was  torn  and  drip- 
ping; his  eyes  a  gleam  of  rolling  red  and 
white;  the  little  tail  stern  and  stiff  like  the 
gallant  stump  of  a  flagstaff  shot  away.  He 
was  desperate,  but  indomitable ;  and  he  sobbed 
as  he  fought  doggedly  on. 

Long  odds !  It  could  not  last.  And  down 
he  went  at  length,  silent  still — never  a  cry 
should  they  wring  from  him  in  his  agony: 
the  Venus  glued  to  that  mangled  pad ;  Rasper 
beneath  him  now ;  three  at  his  throat ;  two  at 
his  ears ;  a  crowd  on  flanks  and  body. 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay        349 
The  Terror  of  the  Border  was  down  at  last ! 

"Wullie,  ma  Wullie!"  screamed  M'Adam, 
bounding  down  the  slope  a  crook's  length  in 
front  of  the  rest.     "Wullie!  Wullie!  tome!" 

At  the  shrill  cry  the  huddle  below  was  con- 
vulsed. It  heaved  and  swayed  and  dragged 
to  and  fro,  like  the  sea  lashed  into  life  by  some 
dying  leviathan. 

A  gigantic  figure,  tawny  and  red,  fought  its 
way  to  the  surface.  A  great  tossing  head, 
bloody  past  recognition,  flung  out  from  the 
ruck.  One  quick  glance  he  shot  from  his  rag- 
ged eyes  at  the  little  flying  form  in  front ;  then 
with  a  roar  like  a  waterfall  plunged  toward 
it,  shaking  off  the  bloody  leeches  as  he  went. 

"Wullie!  Wullie!  I'm  wi'  ye!"  cried  that 
little  voice,  now  so  near. 

Through — through — through ! — an  incom- 
parable effort  and  his  last.  They  hung  to  his 
throat,  they  clung  to  his  muzzle,  they  were 
round  and  about  him.  And  down  he  went 
again  with  a  sob  and  a  little  suffocating  cry, 
shooting  up  at  his  master  one  quick,  beseech- 
ing glance  as  the  sea  of  blood  closed  over  him 
— worrying,  smothering,  tearing,  like  fox- 
hounds at  the  kill. 

They  left  the  dead  and  pulled  away  the  liv- 
ing. And  it  was  no  light  task,  for  the  pack 
were  mad  for  blood. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  wet  mess  of  hair  and 


3 50  Bob,   Son  of  Battle 

red  and  flesh  was  old  Shep,  stone-dead.  And 
as  Saunderson  pulled  the  body  out,  his  face  was 
working;  for  no  man  can  lose  in  a  crack  the 
friend  of  a  dozen  years,  and  remain  unmoved. 

The  Venus  lay  there,  her  teeth  clenched 
still  in  death ;  smiling  that  her  vengeance  was 
achieved.  Big  Rasper,  blue'  no  longer,  was 
gasping  out  his  life.  Two  more  came  crawl- 
ing out  to  find  a  quiet  spot  where  they  might 
lay  them  down  to  die.  Before  the  night  had 
fallen  another  had  gone  to  his  account.  While 
not  a  dog  who  fought  upon  that  day  but  car- 
ried the  scars  of  it  with  him  to  his  grave. 

The  Terror  o'  th'  Border,  terrible  in  his  life, 
like  Samson,  was  yet  more  terrible  in  his  dying. 

Down  at  the  bottom  lay  that  which  once  had 
been  Adam  M'  Adam's  Red  Wull. 

At  the  sight  the  little  man  neither  raved  nor 
swore :  it  was  past  that  for  him.  He  sat  down, 
heedless  of  the  soaking  ground,  and  took  the 
mangled  head  in  his  lap  very  tenderly. 

"They've  done  ye  at  last,  Wullie — they've 
done  ye  at  last,"  he  said  quietly;  unalterably 
convinced  that  the  attack  had  been  organized 
while  he  was  detained  in  the  tap-room. 

On  hearing  the  loved  little  voice,  the  dog  gave 
one  weary  wag  of  his  stump-tail.  And  with 
that  the  Tailless  Tyke,  Adam  M'  Adam's  Red 
Wull,  the  Black  Killer,  went  to  his  long  home. 

One  by  one  the  Dalesmen  took  away  their 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay        351 

dead,  and  the  little  man  was  left  alone  with 

the  body  of  his  last  friend. 

Dry-eyed   he   sat  there,   nursing   the  dead 

dog's  head;  hour  after  hour — alone — crooning 

to  himself: 

" '  Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 
We  wad  be  beat. ' 

An'  noo  we  are,  Wullie — noo  we  are!  " 

So  he  went  on,  repeating  the  lines  over  and 
over  again,  always  with  the  same  sad  termi- 
nation. 

"A  man's  mither — a  man's  wife — a  man's 
dog!  they  three  are  a'  little  M'Adam  iver  had 
to  back  him!  D'ye  mind  the  auld  mither, 
Wullie?  And  her,  'Niver  be  down-hearted, 
Adam;  ye've  aye  got  yer  mither.'  And  ae 
day  I  had  not.  And  Flora,  Wullie  (ye  remem- 
ber Flora,  Wullie?  Na,  na;  ye'd  not)  wi'  her 
laffin'  damn'  manner,  cryin'  to  one:  'Adam, 
ye  say  ye 're  alane.  But  ye've  me — is  that  no 
enough  for  ony  man?'  And  God  kens  it  was 
— while  it  lasted !"  He  broke  down  and  sobbed 
a  while.  "And  you,  Wullie — and  you!  the 
only  man  friend  iver  I  had!"  He  sought  the 
dog's  bloody  paw  with  his  right  hand. 

M,An'  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 
An'  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
An'  we'll  tak'  a  right  guid  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne.  "* 

He  sat  there,  muttering,  and  stroking  the 


352  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

poor  head  upon  his  lap,  bending  over  it,  like  a 
mother  over  a  sick  child. 

"  They've  done  ye  at  last,  lad — done  ye  sair. 
And  noo  I'm  thinkin'  they'll  no  rest  content 
till  I'm  gone.  And  oh,  Wullie!" — he  bent 
down  and  whispered — "  I  dreamed  sic  an  aw- 
fu' thing — that  ma  Wullie — but  there!  'twas 
but  a  dream." 

So  he  sat  on,  crooning  to  the  dead  dog ;  and 
no  man  approached  him.  Only  Bessie  of  the 
inn  watched  the  little  lone  figure  from  afar. 

It  was  long  past  noon  when  at  length  he 
rose,  laying  the  dog's  head  reverently  down, 
and  tottered  away  toward  that  bridge  which 
once  the  dead  thing  on  the  slope  had  held 
against  a  thousand. 

He  crossed  it  and  turned ;  there  was  a  look 
upon  his  face,  half  hopeful,  half  fearful,  very 
piteous  to  see. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  tome!"  he  cried;  only  the 
accents,  formerly  so  fiery,  were  now  weak  as 
a  dying  man's. 

A  while  he  waited  in  vain. 

"Are  ye  no  comin',  Wullie?"  he  asked  at 
length  in  quavering  tones.  "Ye've  not  used 
to  leave  me." 

He  walked  away  a  pace,  then  turned  again 
and  whistled  that  shrill,  sharp  call,  only  now  it 
sounded  like  a  broken  echo  of  itself. 

"  Come  to  me,  Wullie !  "  he  implored,  very 
pitifully.  "  'Tis  the  first  time  iver  I  kent  ye 
not  come  and  me  whistlin'.  What  ails  ye,  lad?" 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay       353 

He  recrossed  the  bridge,  walking  blindly 
like  a  sobbing  child ;  and  yet  dry-eyed. 

Over  the  dead  body  he  stooped. 

"What  ails  ye,  Wullie?"  he  asked  again. 
"Will  you,  too,  leave  me?" 

Then  Bessie,  watching  fearfully,  saw  him 
bend,  sling  the  great  body  on  his  back,  and 
stagger  away. 

Limp  and  hideous,  the  carcass  hung  down 
from  the  little  man's  shoulders.  The  huge 
head,  with  grim,  wide  eyes  and  lolling  tongue, 
jolted  and  swagged  with  the  motion,  seeming 
to  grin  a  ghastly  defiance  at  the  world  it  had 
left.  And  the  last  Bessie  saw  of  them  was 
that  bloody,  rolling  head,  with  the  puny  legs 
staggering  beneath  their  load,  as  the  two 
passed  out  of  the  world's  ken. 

In  the  Devil's  Bowl,  next  day,  they  found 
the  pair:  Adam  M'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull, 
face  to  face;  dead,  not  divided;  each,  save  for 
the  other,  alone.  The  dog,  his  saturnine  ex- 
pression glazed  and  ghastly  in  the  fixedness  of 
death,  propped  up  against  that  humpbacked 
boulder  beneath  which,  a  while  before,  the 
Black  Killer  had  dreed  his  weird ;  and,  close 
by,  his  master  lying  on  his  back,  his  dim  dead 
eyes  staring  up  at  the  heaven,  one  hand  still 
clasping  a  crumpled  photograph;  the  weary 
body  at  rest  at  last,  the  mocking  face — mock- 
ing no  longer — alight  with  a  whole-souled, 
transfiguring  happiness. 
2.3 


354  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 


POSTSCRIPT 

Adam  M'  Adam  and  his  Red  Wull  lie  buried 
together:  one  just  within,  the  other  just  with- 
out, the  consecrated  pale. 

The  only  mourners  at  the  funeral  were 
David,  James  Moore,  Maggie,  and  a  gray  dog 
peering  through  the  lych-gate. 

During  the  service  a  carriage  stopped  at  the 
churchyard,  and  a  lady  with  a  stately  figure 
and  a  gentle  face  stepped  out  and  came  across 
the  grass  to  pay  a  last  tribute  to  the  dead. 
And  Lady  Eleanour,  as  she  joined  the  little 
group  about  the  grave,  seemed  to  notice  a 
more  than  usual  solemnity  in  the  parson's 
voice  as  he  intoned :  "  Earth  to  earth — ashes 
to  ashes — dust  to  dust ;  in  sure  and  certain  hope 
of  the  Resurrection  to  eternal  life." 

When  you  wander  in  the  gray  hill-country 
of  the  North,  in  the  loneliest  corner  of  that 
lonely  land  you  may  chance  upon  a  low 
farm-house,  lying  in  the  shadow  of  the  Muir 
Pike. 

Entering,  a  tall  old  man  comes  out  to  greet 
you — the  Master  of  Kenmuir.  His  shoulders 
are  bent  now;  the  hair  that  was  so  dark  is 
frosted;  but  the  blue-gray  eyes  look  you  as 
proudly  in  the  face  as  of  yore. 

And  while  the  girl  with  the  glory  of  yellow 
hair  is  preparing  food  for  you — they  are  hos- 


The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay       355 

pitable  to  a  fault,  these  Northerners — you  will 
notice  on  the  mantelpiece,  standing  solitary, 
a  massive  silver  cup,  dented. 

That  is  the  world-known  Shepherds'  Trophy, 
won  outright,  as  the  old  man  will  tell  you,  by 
Owd  Bob,  last  and  best  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of 
Kenmuir.  The  last  because  he  is  the  best; 
because  once,  for  a  long-drawn  unit  of  time, 
James  Moore  had  thought  him  to  be  the  worst. 

When  at  length  you  take  your  leave,  the  old 
man  accompanies  you  to  the  top  of  the  slope  to 
point  you  your  way. 

"  Yo'  cross  the  stream ;  over  Langholm  How, 
yonder;  past  the  Bottom;  and  oop  th'  hill  on 
far  side.  Yo'll  come  on  th'  house  o'  top.  And 
happen  yo'll  meet  Th'  Owd  Un  on  the  road. 
Good-day  to  you,  sir,  good-day." 

So  you  go  as  he  has  bidden  you ;  across  the 
stream,  skirting  the  how,  over  the  gulf  and  up 
the  hill  again. 

On  the  way,  as  the  Master  has  foretold,  you 
come  upon  an  old  gray  dog,  trotting  soberly 
along.  Th'  Owd  Un,  indeed,  seems  to  spend 
the  evening  of  his  life  going  thus  between 
Kenmuir  and  the  Grange.  The  black  muzzle 
is  almost  white  now;  the  gait,  formerly  so 
smooth  and  strong,  is  stiff  and  slow;  vener- 
able, indeed,  is  he  of  whom  men  still  talk  as 
the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North. 

As  he  passes,  he  pauses  to  scan  you.  The 
noble  head  is  high,  and  one  foot  raised;  and 
3^ou  look  into  two  big  gray  eyes  such  as  you 


35 6  Bob,  Son  of  Battle 

have  never  seen  before — soft,  a  little  dim,  and 
infinitely  sad. 

That  is  Owd  Bob  o*  Kenmuir,  of  whom  the 
tales  are  many  as  the  flowers  on  the  May. 
With  him  dies  the  last  of  the  immortal  line  of 
the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir. 

You  travel  on  up  the  hill,  something  pen- 
sive, and  knock  at  the  door  of  the  house  on 
the  top. 

A  woman,  comely  with  the  inevitable  come- 
liness of  motherhood,  opens  to  you.  And 
nestling  in  her  arms  is  a  little  boy  with  golden 
hair  and  happy  face,  like  one  of  Correggio's 
cherubs. 

You  ask  the  child  his  name.  He  kicks  and 
crows,  and  looks  up  at  his  mother ;  and  in  the 
end  lisps  roguishly,  as  if  it  was  the  merriest 
joke  in  all  this  merry  world,  "Adum  Mat- 
addum." 


THE    END 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


BDDllbSMIO 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


imp 


iSillllllllllSlI 

■IMWI 


iiiif 


!     II 


fill 
IB. 

HUHb 

SiilllPSilitel 

illlliliiK 


iwliils'klisiv! 


III 


ill 


BB 


«W 


